#maybe his tears would also have a visceral effect on him

[byler-alarmist]

Something just occurred to me......almost all the times Will is shown crying, it's not with Mike there. He may have tears in his eyes, but he's usually alone or with his family when he full-on cries. The only time Mike even alluded to Will having cried in front of him is when he said it sounded like WIll whimpering over the walkie because he'd heard him sound like that when he'd fallen of his bike and broken his finger.

I wonder if Will actively tries not to cry in front of Mike. I wonder if the van scene was the first time in a long time he had cried with Mike present, and even then, he turned his face away so Mike wouldn't see.

[watching-pictures-move]

Movie Review | McBain (Glickenhaus, 1991)

For a movie where Christopher Walken decides to round up the old gang and head to Colombia and topple the government, it's interesting how much this feels like a "real" movie, rather than a purely jingoistic fantasy. Certainly the ease with which this goal is achieved, especially without any US government support, requires some suspension of disbelief, but the move devotes some attention to sketching out the logistics of Walken's plan. He needs weapons, and they're gonna cost him a few million, so he hits a low level drug dealer, then a mob boss, then finally attacking the Colombian government, like missions in a video game about cocaine trafficking and toppling foreign regimes. The heroes have a fighter plan escort when flying down to Colombia to deal with any pesky enemy aircraft, and have to ensure the landing zone is cleared before they get there Stinger missiles and fancy computer equipment play a big role in the operation. If anything, there's maybe a bit too much "real" movie in here, as the Schwarzenegger, Stallone and Norris vehicles with similar plots wisely avoid crowding their heroes' presences, allowing them to take on almost mythic stature, and you don't get the same dynamic with the heroes here.

On a similar note, this is the second James Glickenhaus movie I've seen this week, and it's interesting the level of political ambivalence both share. Unlike the Schwarzenegger movies, these carry a conscious geopolitical charge, foregrounding these elements almost as milieu and atmosphere. But unlike the Stallone and Norris movies, these allow some room for challenging the implied jingoism of these premises. When Walken and co. attack the local drug dealer's operation, the dealer, played by Luis Guzman, indignantly states that he provides jobs to people who can't get good ones through legitimate channels, and that the real money is up the chain. And the US government twiddles their thumbs as the situation unfolds, lamely offering a new measure involving red white and blue currency that seems more a gesture of flag-waving than a real attempt to deal with money laundering and drug trade financing. The Soldier is arguably more pointed in this respect, depicting a tense, convoluted geopolitical game where the US is willing to nuke its allies to protect its oil supply, and the situation is only resolved when the heroes, operating with nonexistent government oversight, take the concept of mutually assured destruction into their own hands. You won't find a coherent stance in either of these, but it is interesting the way their political confusion manifests in their stories. I would however suggest that if I were Maria Conchita Alonso and giving a tearful televised speech to inspire an uprising, I would maybe have the gun-toting goon with me step out of the frame, and air the speech after I've finished filming, so that I don't, I dunno, attract the evil dictator's army to attack the TV station I'm broadcasting from before I've finished.

And on a pure action level, there is plenty to enjoy, with endless good guys and bad guys getting slaughtered in impressively staged action scenes with gleefully deployed squib and explosion effects. There is an almost visceral level of consequence to these scenes that was taken for granted in this era of escalating body counts, but seems rare in our current CGI-heavy movie landscape. There is also some fun in hanging out with the cast, although the clutter I mentioned above presents a problem in that none of them get to be distinct enough. You get Walken, doing something similar to The Dogs of War from a decade prior, but not getting to be all that fun aside from a scene where he pretends to be a Mossad assassin and does an Israeli accent. You get Michael Ironside as the arms dealer, sitting unhappily in his mansion despite his untold riches, perhaps not unlike Glickenhaus himself, and also sporting an awful ponytail. You get Glickenhaus regular and friend of the American Ninja Steve James. Those guys can stay. But there are a bunch of other dudes and none of them make an impression. Presumably they each have a specialty, but there are two pilot dudes? I hate to sound like middle management, but you gotta downsize this operation, get these guys to multitask and maybe you'll have better characters to latch onto.

[unofficialadamtaurus]

I have an idea for an Adam “fix” if we want him to actually be a villain. I’d personally split him into two characters or give his role as someone who actually cares about Faunus rights and goes to extreme lengths to an existing character like Sienna (and have her not die). I’d make sure there were multiple groups in-universe fighting for Faunus rights and Adam’s be just one branch of one group. I’d have Adam claim he was branded but always refuse to ever take off his mask. The big reveal would be that he’s not a Faunus at all. The horns are fake. There is no brand. He was co-opting Faunus struggles as an excuse to be violent and sew discord in society. Blake could then go through a lot of development after that, believing Sienna’s ways are wrong because she thinks Sienna is like Adam based on methodology, they could clash, but Blake would eventually learn that Sienna is right and Blake could become an effective and meaningful Faunus rights activist. This would allow the abusive ex storyline to coexist with an actually meaningful Faunus rights plot. What do you think? (I also like AUs where Adam is a tragic anti-hero and former mentor to Blake, axing the abusive ex stuff)

This is going to sound very aggressive but I could not think of a more diplomatic way to phrase this without it losing emphasis: I have never recoiled more viscerally from an Adam rewrite idea than this one.

I hate the idea of making Adam a human posing as a Faunus, and I do not use the word hate lightly here. At a surface level, that change to his character rips out everything I like about him besides aesthetics—and it even impinges on those by removing the scar and making the horns fake.

He is already a villain in canon. You don't need to make him an impostor or rip out the parts of his character that could force people to grapple with uncomfortable implications about the cycles of violence and oppression to do it. Hell, you can take away several layers of terrible things he's done (physical/emotional abuse, maiming Yang, etc.) and he'd still be a villain.

If you want to make him utterly hateable then this is the best way I've seen to do it. There is absolutely nothing sympathetic about the character concept you've pitched here and to slap Adam's name on that concept - the name of a character who is canonically branded, a minority, and oppressed - leaves a distinctly sour taste on my tongue.

It's one thing to adjust a story to better address the nuances of the issues brought up and then cast aside in canon. It's another to remove those issues entirely. It is quite another to shear away any and all nuance canon hinted at in favor of an easily despised villain whose defeat says nothing about the White Fang or racism in RWBY's world.

How is it meaningful to make Adam an impostor and leave Sienna unchanged? How is it meaningful to remove any direct evidence of the SDC's abuses? How is it meaningful to make Blake look like an absolute moron for not noticing that her partner is not what he claims for years?

Maybe, maybe you could make this kind of Adam work for your particular use case. Maybe, maybe there's a story worth telling in this idea. But please, keep it far away from me. I want no part of it.

I'll apologize here for going on a bit of a rant about this. However, you have suggested tearing out the guts and ticking gears of my favorite character and replacing those integral pieces with radioactive sludge. It drastically alters the kinds of stories you can tell with him, like taking a tennis racket with a couple loose strings, cutting out the strings instead of tightening them, and then trying to play badminton with the husk.

To address the bit at the start of your ask, Adam already feels like he's an archetype that's split among other characters. Blake, Ilia, and Sienna are all degrees of him to an extent (Sienna being identical in all aspects except being willing to partner with humans to take down the academies as I discussed in that one comparison post). Introducing yet another faunus rights extremist just to shove Adam all the way off the deep end into absurdity isn't going to do the story or character bloat any favors.

Still, I agree that more WF factions, if not characters, would've helped. Even things as simple as throwaway lines about public stances taken by other WF branches, other aid organizations encountered in the bowels of Mistral while Qrow was searching for huntsmen or in Argus helping displaced faunus, could've done wonders.

[mayasaura]

Alecto, The River, and Colum Asht

I’ve been working on a few different Harrow the Ninth meta theories, and I noticed some threads that seemed to pull them together. Maybe you could call this another megatheorum, but I’m not sure it’s comprehensive enough for that.

I think whatever kind of monster Alecto is, the clues we need to guess are in salt water and the death of Colum Asht.

Salt water leads us to the River. @ovrgrwn @sauntering-vaguely-downwards ​ and I were talking about the symbolism of salt water in the series, and Ovrgrwn mentioned both that Alecto is a “saltwater creature” and that the River isn’t salt water. The thing is, I realised later that the River is salt water.

One of the biggest puzzles we were left with pieces of in Harrow the Ninth was "What is Alecto?". She's been called a lot of things, but we know very little abit definitively. There’s a theory that I was discussing with @thunderon and @asimovsideburns that Alecto is something like a Resurrection Beast, in that she and Harrow are both communal souls forged through human sacrifice. There’s a theory that maybe she was someone else before the Resurrection and in trying to pull her soul back John accidentally got a whole bunch of souls instead. Or she could literally be Alecto the First the way Harrow is an entire generation of the Ninth, with every soul that used to inhabit the world of the First packed into her body. I like all these theories—it feels like we’re on the right track, but also like we’re missing something. This by itself doesn’t seem like it would be so viscerally terrifying to Augustine and Mercy, who were present for the creation of Teacher and the revenant constructs in Caanan House. If she’s an overstuffed suitcase of ten billion souls, why is she a saltwater creature? Why does Teacher call her tomb a zoo, and why are her eyes Like That?

[Image: It came down around her in shreds, as light and insubstantial as drifts of spiderweb. The water sprayed through white holes, rushing in with a pounding roar: that brackish, bloodied water that only existed within the River. She was bouyed up by a spray of ice water and filth - but she wasn’t; she seemed to be walking down her long black corridor again-]

In chapter 53 when Harrow tears her way out of the bubble of the false Canaan House, the River is described as “brackish, bloodied water”. Brackish water is the water that’s found at the place where a river meets a sea; too salty to drink, but not as salty as sea water. The River is brackish salt water, and Alecto is a saltwater creature.

Brackish water is mentioned only one other time in either book.

[Image: She appeared behind the grey-thing-that-had-been-Colum. She took its twisted neck in her hands as calmly and easily as though it were an animal, and she tilted it. The neck snapped. Her fingertips dipped inside the skin; the eye-mouths shrilled, and the tongue around Gideon’s neck flopped away, and both those mouths dissolved into brackish fluid. The body dropped to the floor—]

When Colum Asht dies in chapter 34 of Gideon the Ninth, a brackish fluid runs out of his eye sockets. Whatever creature was inside Colum, it came from the River. And then there’s the description - it’s too long and spread out to quote in full here, but the details are that his eyes went liquid black, and he moved “like there were six people inside him, and none of those six people had ever been inside a human being before”. There are lights under Colum’s skin and things pushing and slithering along his muscles as he walks. When he opens his eyes again, they’re toothed mouths with tongues, and Colum’s tongue has become long and prehensile and it wraps around Gideon’s neck like a tentacle.

The stoma at the bottom of the the River, the mouths to Hell that only open for Resurrection Beasts and the Emperor, are described like this:

[Image: It was a huge, hideous, dark expanse, and it had seething, weird edges; it took the lights pattering over them for me to see that the edges of the hole were enormous human teeth. Each one must’ve been six bodies high and two bodies wide, with the dainty scalloped edges of incisors. The teeth shivered and trembled, like the hole was slavering. And that hole had nothing in it; that hole was blacker than space, that hole was an eaten-away tunnel of reality.]

[Image: Streamerlike lingual tentacles emerged—the unassuming pink you got on normal, non-Hell-bound tongues—easily a thousand of them, jostling, questing, blindly thrusting up out of that mouth. Pyrrha flinched.]

Colum’s eyes have become miniature stoma. It’s interesting that while the thing possessing Colum advances on and kills Silas first, the stoma don’t open until Gideon attacks it. It uses Colum’s sword to kill Silas, but draws Gideon in with its tongue, like the tongues from the stoma at the bottom of the River draw her father the Emperor and Augustine in. But that’s another meta post.

Perhaps the stoma are creatures, sentient hellmouths lurking at the bottom of the River, and it’s stoma that are possessing Colum the Eighth. Maybe it’s the river itself possessing Colum, and the lights under his skin are souls. Maybe it’s something from beyond the stoma, something that came out of Hell. It’s an important question, but not one I have an answer to right now. I am confident in the connection between the stoma and the Eighth House. In chapter 36 of HtN Augustine accuses Mercy of not taking the stoma seriously “which is why your whole damned House sucks at it like a grotesque teat-”. Mercy’s House is the Eighth House, so whatever the metaphysical effect of siphoning is, it presumably involves the stoma. What interests me most about Colum’s transformation for now is that his eyes went full liquid black, and that he was possessed by a creature that left salt water behind it.

Still with me? Now we tie it all together with Alecto’s eyes, the eyes currently in the face of God, the Emperor of the Nine Houses. Like the possessed Colum, their sclera are black. Unlike Colum, their eyes have irises and pupils. The irises are “dark and leadenly iridescent - a deep rainbow oil slick, ringed with white.” Even before I had any idea about Alecto, I wondered what sort of soul the God who was once a man had consumed to have eyes like that. The way Ianthe’s eye colors swirled and merged when Naberius was fighting her, I wondered if his dark iridescent irises were the colors of ten billion souls swirling together, but that wouldn’t explain the black sclera. Now I think the Resurrection Beasts, the stoma, and these theories about Alecto are offering an explanation.

Perhaps Alecto is an enormous collection of human souls, like in our theories, but she is not only human souls. Whatever was possessing Colum Asht is also a part of Alecto. The black sclera she gets from the River, and the iridescent irises she gets from thousands or millions or billions of human souls. Depending on how you interpret what possessed Colum, that could mean a few different things. Maybe she's a human stoma, a human soul merged with the mouth of hell. Maybe she's a tributary or avatar of the River, and the power of all of history's death runs through her. Maybe she's partially comprised of a creature from the incomprehensible chaos of Hell.

The stoma option seems like the most likely to me, to explain the fear and disgust that Mercy and Augustine feel toward Alecto. An avatar of the River is terrifying, but also awesome. That's not the right vibe for 'put that thing down before it hurts one of us'. It was implied in the conversation about Hell and the stoma at the end of chapter 36 that nothing had ever been observed coming through the other way, and it's plainly stated by the Emperor that nothing which goes in has ever come back. If Mercy and Augustine were aware that part of Alecto was from Hell, I would expect it to be hinted at in that scene, and it wasn't really. I did notice that Augustine is more scared of Alecto than Mercy. When Mercy thought Alecto had come to kill her, she spoke to her. When Augustine thought he had seen Alecto, he turned and ran. Maybe Mercy is just braver in general, but Mercy is also less afraid of the stoma than Augustine.

As a closing note, evoking the stoma or what might lie beyond it would explain the only line in Annabel Lee as a metaphor for Alecto that puzzles me.

And neither the angels in heaven above,

  Nor the demons down under the sea,

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

  Of the beautiful Annabel Lee

[alittlewhump]

Unbidden - Act 1, chapter 7

Masterlist | Previous | Next

Content warnings: death mention

Morgan was surprised to return to consciousness. He hadn't expected that to happen again. He was lying in a rough bed, covered by thin sheets. His eyes wouldn't quite focus, but sunlight was shining through a window and giving everything a golden cast. It smelled familiar, like healing herbs - maybe Akara's cabin? Someone must have arrived just in time to save them from Andariel's clutches. His efforts certainly hadn't bought enough time for an enthralment to wear off. He made to sit up, but the pain that lanced through his arm cut that plan short. He cried out before he could stop himself, biting down on his lip to muffle the sound. Even that hurt more than it should have.

The priestess appeared beside the bed. "Finally back with the living, are you? Good. We've been worried. Drink this." She pressed a cup to his lips. He hadn't realized how thirsty he'd been, but he gulped back the water quickly. The cool liquid soothed his raw throat a little. It still hurt to swallow, probably to speak as well.

He risked a soft "Thank you," barely more than a whisper. It felt like his throat was lined with sand, and he grimaced.

"Just rest, hero." Hero? The confusion must have been plain on his face. The expression of concern had been out of character, but this was much stranger. Akara gave him a sympathetic, slightly worried look. "Don't you-"

Blaise burst into the small room at top volume. "You're finally awake! The great hero rises at last! I've been telling everyone how you defeated Andariel and saved us all. They'll be so glad to see you've pulled through!" She was making an unusual amount of eye contact. This was a cue, then. Despite the confusion of the situation, Morgan found himself relaxing a little. It was good to see her alive and well, although she continued to baffle him. Why would she lie about what had happened?

"It would be a treat to hear the tale from your point of view for a change," Akara murmured. Blaise's smile froze. She was, Morgan realized, banking on him playing along with the version of events she'd laid out. He'd already told her he didn't lie, so why would she involve him this way?

"I, ah..." He cleared his throat and regretted it instantly, wincing. "I'm afraid I... don't remember that," he said carefully. It wasn't a lie - he couldn't remember what had never happened.

Akara clicked her tongue. "I've seen this happen before. Poisons can wreak havoc on the memory. It's a shame." Blaise looked relieved. "Anyway, now that you've made it through the worst of it, I can get out and replenish my stock." She was already slipping a cloak over her shoulders. "Blaise, you'll keep an eye on him, hm?" It was not a question, and she did not wait for a response before leaving.

Blaise watched the door until the sound of footsteps faded away, then she turned on Morgan with a ferociously angry expression. "You're a complete fucking idiot and I don't care if you don't remember any of it. I'll sum it up for you: you decided to just jump up on Andariel like she wasn't going to destroy you in one second. Then - of course - she did. We're both fucking lucky that I managed to shake her stupid demon mind control and put a whole quiver of arrows through her ugly skull. Now tell me what in fuck's sake you were thinking when that seemed like a good idea to you."

Her sudden switch from cheerful to enraged was confusing and overwhelming. "You were enthralled, I had to try something," he blurted. He didn't know what she wanted to hear, but evidently it wasn't that.

"You should have tried going back for some fucking help! That's what any person with a brain in their idiot head would have done!"

That hadn't even occurred to Morgan. Given the prevailing attitude toward his brotherhood, asking for help from others was not usually an option. He would have rejected the idea anyway - it would have spelled her doom, which would have been an unacceptable outcome, especially when the likelihood of receiving help from the others was so low. They'd both managed to survive somehow, so why was she so upset? Maybe if he just explained. "As a follower of Rathma, my sworn-"

"Your sworn duty is to maintain the Balance. I know. I've heard your little speech. What does that have to do with anything?"

"The forces of darkness are gathering. I must do what I can to hinder evil and preserve good." Blaise just kept staring. Was that not enough explanation? Time to take it down to basic facts, then. "You're a good person, Blaise."

He was not expecting the series of emotions that crossed her face, most of which he couldn't identify. She settled on anger, which was recognizable but still confusing. He was also not expecting the slap that stung suddenly across his cheek. He winced. She was fast.

"What about now, huh? Do you still think I'm good?" Blaise's voice was low and dangerous. Morgan's eyes narrowed, searching her face for anything that would make sense of this. He found nothing. Why was she reacting so strongly to such a simple observation? Maybe - oh. Cain had mentioned Andariel's influence extending to emotional anguish as well, not just physical. That... well, that might explain this volatility but it wouldn't help him navigate it. He wasn't going to lie to her. It wouldn't matter anyway, since it felt like neither answer was going to be correct.

"Yes."

Another slap, harder than the last one. Morgan bit back a yelp. She had managed to hit the exact same spot, and he could already feel it beginning to swell.

"How about now?" Her voice trembled with anger. This was going nowhere.

"The answer -" here he flinched, closing his eyes in anticipation of the next strike. "- will continue to be yes, no matter how many times you hit me." Nothing. Maybe he'd gotten through. He opened his eyes hesitantly, only to be met with another slap. He made a soft grunt of pain, despite himself.

"You're a fool," Blaise spat. So she didn't believe his assessment. This could definitely be solved with more explanation. He just had to choose his words carefully. His cheek throbbed.

"I have spent enough time around you," he began slowly, looking at a spot on the wall. It felt safer than making eye contact. "To observe that you are loyal, brave, kind, and fair." He didn't dare risk looking over at her, so instead he continued. "I am an outsider with... few social graces. I keep company with the dead. You were ordered to escort me on an unpleasant and dangerous quest, which nearly got you killed." He paused to swallow, grimacing. His throat burned painfully, but he wasn't finished. "All things considered, it is reasonable for you to hate me. That does not change your nature."

Something else was beginning to occur to him. Blaise wasn't saying anything, so he forged ahead despite the discomfort. "And yet, despite all the trouble I've caused you, you still went to the effort of bringing me back here. To your healer. It would have been easier to leave me. Where I fell."

She snorted at that. So at least she had been listening. "And what do you suppose I would have told everyone then, huh?"

Morgan turned his head to look at her again, searching for some sign - was this a trick question? What was the answer supposed to be? He decided to go with the factual. "That I died. You don't mark the passing of outsiders here."

That earned him another scoff. At least it wasn't a blow. "Yeah, that would go over great. 'Hey, everyone! We defeated Andariel! Where's Morgan, you ask? Oh, he died in battle and I just left his corpse down there in the monastery.'"

A deep-seated emotion coiled around his ribs, squeezed like a snake. That wasn't what happened at all. Wasn't what would have happened. All the pieces of it were wrong. He could feel himself scowling, a visceral reaction to the feeling in his chest.

"See? That wouldn't be right," Blaise said.

"No. Not in battle," he spat. Ridiculous. It hadn't been a battle. He'd barely put up a fight at all. "He died a coward," he corrected, half snarling. "Screaming. Writhing. Helpless. Like a worm on a hook." He wished the poison had taken his memory as Akara had suggested. Instead, he remembered each terrible second with crystal clarity.

Tears had sprung to his eyes. Apparently he was also feeling the emotional effects of Andariel's influence. Recognizing that didn't help. He drew a shaky breath and raised his hands to wipe away the tears. A searing pain shot through his injured arm as he moved it and he choked back a cry, pressing the limb back against his side where it hadn't hurt so badly. He scrubbed at his eyes with his good hand, but when his fingers brushed the spot on his cheek where Blaise's hand had connected, he made another soft sound of pain. Gods above, why did everything have to hurt so much? The anger and frustration and embarrassment all boiled over suddenly, without warning. An animal sound bubbled up from inside him, a growl that opened up into almost a howl before being overtaken by violent coughing. That hurt too, of course.

Strong hands gripped Morgan's shoulders, sat him upright and rubbed his back as the coughing fit subsided. Shame burned hot across his face. He was supposed to be able to control his emotions, but evidently he hadn't completed his training as well as he'd thought. To lose his composure so completely, then get treated like this - like a child! By someone who barely even tolerated his presence, probably compelled by pity. He closed his eyes and lay back, wishing he could just disappear.

Blaise spoke softly now. "You're not a coward, you know. You were actually really good down there." A hollow feeling settled over Morgan. Now he was definitely being pitied. This was worse than the anger, harder to accept. People were often angry at him, and he was at peace with that. But this... this made him feel so small, and he hated it.

"Don't," he rasped.

"What?"

"You don't have to... soothe my pride." His lip curled. "I know what I am." Weak. Pathetic. A burden. "I will leave as soon as I am well enough. It should be easy to avoid me until then." That ought to please her, the promise of seeing him gone. He was certainly looking forward to being alone so he could work on regaining his emotional control.

"Listen, Morgan." Blaise's voice was quiet, serious. She sighed. "I don't hate you."

That... no, that didn't make any sense. Most people disliked members of his Order on principle, and she had more reason than most to hate him. Morgan opened his eyes to peer suspiciously at the woman seated beside him. He couldn't read her expression. Was this a joke? Sarcasm? Did she really mean it? A long moment passed in silence. He broke it with the barest whisper, "Why?"

"You saved my life, idiot. You almost died trying, I thought - Anyway, I didn't hate you before that either. I wouldn't say I like you, exactly... I mean, you're... not normal. But it's obvious you're trying to do what's right, and I respect that." She made a face like she'd tasted something sour. "I haven't been... I mean, I know I've treated you - fuck, and just now..." She trailed off, ran a hand through her hair, and tried again. "Look, I'm sorry I hit you. I shouldn't have done that. I just don't... why would you say... why would you think I'm a good person? I've never even been nice to you."

"You don't have to be nice to me to be a good person," he explained tiredly. Nice was surface-level, easy for people to fake. Besides that, impartiality was a central tenet of Rathma's teachings. It was essential to the Balance. Personal feelings and experiences could not be permitted to colour a priest's judgment. Removing oneself from the equation had to be second nature. Being treated nicely, or not, had nothing to do with it.

Blaise was making that sour face again, and Morgan didn't have the energy for any further explanation. He didn't feel like he had the energy for anything. Everything hurt and he was feeling a lot of emotions, most of which he was not at all comfortable with. He closed his eyes again. "I need to rest." He paused. "Thank you. For saving my life." No response came. That was fine. Silence was easy. So was slipping back into unconsciousness.

[popatochisssp]

can we get an update on the body insecurities with a human s/o for the new boys, if you're up for it?

This one? You bet!

Ash (Undergloom Sans): There’s nothing about his body that he’s particularly self-conscious of, actually. ...But there’s also nothing about his body that he’s particularly proud of. It’s...fine, it does all the things a body is supposed to do, more or less, but it’s just...there. Not bad, but not good either. He’s very much the type of person who’s mentally drawn a line between himself and his body, thinking of them as separate things, and the qualities of the latter have nothing to do with the former. He can say honestly that there’s nothing he hates about his body, but the fact that there’s nothing he especially likes about it either is probably not ideal. He’d almost certainly benefit from his s/o helping him learn a little self-love to nudge that pointed neutrality into something positive, and to give him at least one or two things he could actively like about the bones that carry him around from place to place.

Yrus (Undergloom Papyrus): Much as he knows it’s a silly thing to worry about, he tends to fret about falling short of human standards of masculinity, at least as they’re broadly, popularly defined. All the things that men are ‘supposed to be’--big, strong, athletic, tough, et cetera--are things that he...isn’t. He’s on the taller side so he’s got that going for him, but he’s not all that strong, physically, and his hobbies are...pretty domestic. He loves cooking and cleaning, books and scented candles, nature and knowledge! And of course, he knows all about the concept of toxic masculinity and that striving to be anything at all but what he is would only harm him, but with a human s/o, who was born in and brought up around those ideas and stereotypes, he sometimes wonders if that...matters to them??? If he’s...maybe not being all the man they want or need him to be??? A frank conversation about all of that would do wonders to put at least most of those fears to rest, but it’s definitely a topic for his s/o to be a little tactful and sensitive about it!

Brick (Horrorfell Sans): Most of the physical consequences of Everything that happened Underground don’t make him feel self-conscious at all. His size, the hole in his head, the pins in his jaw, they all make him look cool and scary as hell, and he almost looks at them all as a point of pride that he survived everything thrown his way. Even only being able to manifest one eye-light is really not that big a deal to him and doesn’t really register as anything to dwell on. But... there is one thing... He really doesn’t like the cracks in his vertebrae. He thinks they’re ugly and even after all this time, they still look fresh and raw and feeling eyes on them, or catching a glimpse of them himself in the mirror makes him feel entirely too exposed. Human docs couldn’t figure out a permanent way to fill them in without restricting his range of motion or further agitating his magic, and he quickly got to the point where he couldn’t take all the poking and prodding around his neck trying to figure something out and just wanted to get on with life. There are a lot of turtlenecks in his wardrobe and any attention paid to that particular spot by his s/o is best kept short and sweet.

King (Horrorfell Papyrus): You’d think it would be his scars still, or even his missing leg. But it’s neither. It’s not something he’d ever express in a million years, but his biggest insecurity is that he... kind of hates the way he looks in clothes. Not all clothes--he has a few expensive, tailored suits he’s very fond of, however rarely he gets the occasion to wear them these days--but most everything else... He doesn’t have a problem with his body as much as he has a problem with the way clothes that weren’t designed with his proportions in mind make his body look, and on the surface, among humans, that’s just about all of them. Half the shirts he tries on look like ill-fitting crop-tops and even the longest pants end up being capris when he tries to buy off the rack and it’s...frustrating that he can’t just buy something and look good in it right away. Because of that, he has a relatively small closet and tends to wear things that cover him up as much as possible, in dark colors (always black if possible), finding that it accentuates his height and slimness and blends his long limbs and torso into himself to look less odd. He’d probably be happier if he just bought everything he liked and then had it tailored to him, so he could branch out more into some of the types of things he used to wear, but that much tailoring would be expensive and for something he looks on as a vanity... He’s resistant, feeling like there’s just more important things to save and use the money for, like food, medical expenses, actual necessities... A little (a lot) of persuasion from a s/o to treat himself to more than just a mere handful of outfits that he likes and that fit correctly might be helpful in getting him to indulge.

Merc (Horrorswap Sans): Pretty obvious, he’s most self-conscious about the fact that sometimes he’s not altogether solid. Humans especially don’t seem to think too highly of things that are slimy, goopy, and drippy and caught at the wrong time, he’s all of the above. He doesn’t like the thought of anyone, but especially his s/o being grossed out by him, thinking he’s disgusting or creepy or downright disturbing because he couldn’t keep enough of a handle on his emotions to stay solid and normal. He doesn’t particularly love his eye-lights either, formerly just blue but now ringed with bright, burning red. The color combo can be...intense... and though he isn’t aware of it, he’s definitely been a bit conditioned lately into not making as much direct eye-contact with people as he used to, subconsciously noticing the better, more relaxed response he gets when he looks down or slightly to the side instead. But if we’re talking post-DT integration, when his form is stable and his eye-lights are pink......... he’s not insecure about a damn thing--he worked hard to get his body back and he loves and appreciates every inch of it.

Ell (Horrorswap Papyrus): He tends to expend more energy worrying and being insecure about his personality than anything physical, quite frankly, but if there were something physical...well, even more obvious than his brother, he’s missing a couple limbs and it’s just a bit too fresh for him to be totally comfortable with it yet. There’s a lot he misses and a lot he’s still getting used to doing differently and a lot of mental and emotional baggage from the circumstances that led to him not having legs and he hasn’t really dealt with any of it. As a result, he tends to be self-conscious about anything he can’t do the way he used to before, or any time being in a wheelchair turns something that would be routine for anyone else into an Ordeal... It gets better the more he heals and copes with what happened, and especially when he acknowledges that he does want to try prostheses, even if it means committing to all the time, effort, (metaphorical) blood, (not metaphorical) sweat, and tears that’ll take, but until then... yeah, it’s his lack of legs and wondering if his s/o wouldn’t be happier or at least find it easier to be with a guy who just had two legs and didn’t need to see a prosthetist to get them.

Pitch (Horrorswapfell Sans): Unapologetic about himself--his scars, his blunt(er) claws, his blindness--but with a human s/o especially, there is one thing he’s at least a little hesitant about. It’s the hole in his face, jagged and dark and unsightly...he assumes. It’s not like he’s ever seen it for himself, but he’s certainly felt a change in atmosphere in the past whenever its been exposed and he can only assume it’s disturbing to look at. When disturbing people is not his end-goal, he tries to keep the hole (mostly) covered with a pair of blind-glasses, and that will definitely be the case with his s/o, too... at least until he can suss out their unique reaction to his injury. If it doesn’t bother them, he’s happy to do away with the glasses in private, but the last thing he wants is to make his datemate uncomfortable and if the sight of his wholly uncovered face has that effect... Perhaps it’s for the best to keep them on, then...

Nemo (Horrorswapfell Papyrus): He’s really conscious of his exaggerated startled response at what feels like every little thing. It isn’t, and it’s wholly understandable and maybe even expected for what he went through Underground (especially those last few weeks), but it frustrates him a lot, especially when he gets a s/o. There’s someone he likes, someone he wants to get to know better and to be close to, and they’re right there, but all they have to do is move too fast or do something he wasn’t ready for and his automatic reaction is to flinch or reel back like they were about to...attack him or something! It’s absolutely a case of his mind knowing one thing and his body knowing another and he hasn’t yet figured out how to make the two of them share notes and realize that one of them might have some more up-to-date information than the other. There’ll be lots of nervous apologizing over it until he gets past thinking that they’re probably one disproportionate flinch from deciding he’s a little too high maintenance to make things work.

Sunny (Gastertale Sans): If he could change anything about himself, it would be his hands--or at least, just the holes in the middle of them. Looking through his palms is a very visceral, inescapable reminder that he used to be...or was part of??? somebody else, and that attachment to an identity he no longer owns nor wants makes him a little uncomfortable. He wants to forget all about that stuff and what little he does remember of That Time and just be who he is now without having to think about the past. Still, it’s... always right there, whenever he looks down at his own hands, and some days that’s harder to deal with than others. He knows the circular holes in his palms are probably really cool and interesting to his human s/o, but at the same time, he kind of hopes they don’t pay overly much attention to that part of them. He’s trying to just let his hands be... his hands, and to not attach a whole lot of weird baggage to them. And on days when that doesn’t quite pan out, he’s got all kinds of pockets and gloves and busywork to keep them out of sight, out of mind.

Aster (Gastertale Papyrus): He tends to spend more time in front of the mirror, tracing the asymmetrical cracks in his skull, than he would ever care to admit. He’s not sure why he dwells on them as much as he does, his brother has them too and doesn’t seem to care about his, but... He doesn’t know what they are, or why they’re there...or how he got them and when...or if they were always there and he...they??? had just been born with them. Maybe he frets and grumbles about them because of what they represent--how much of his...their past was lost when they, as separate beings, came to be, even in spite of sharing what they do know and remember. The life and times of W.D. Gaster are a mystery that can never be completely solved, and that loss bugs him. The cracks make him especially insecure because anyone can see them, right there on his face, and ask what they are or where they came from, and he’ll have no answer, just like he wouldn’t have one for a hundred other completely normal and reasonable questions someone could ask him about his life Before. He definitely dreads and overthinks how to answer those questions from a s/o, in a way that doesn’t either make them think he’s lying to avoid being honest with them or freak them out with too much of a very crazy and unbelievable story too soon. It’s a hard hypothetical balance to strike, and maybe if he didn’t have ‘please ask me something about my past’ essentially written on his face, he’d have more time to figure out how to do it best...

[sepublic]

Agony of a Witch...

           …This episode. It BROKE me.

           I was afraid this episode would be intense, but my heart is GENUINELY beating, like Belos’!

           Where… where do I begin.

           Lilith cursed Eda. She really did. She said there was more to the story, and asked Eda to explain herself first… I remember speculating that if it HAD been Lilith, what would’ve been the motive?

           Either way, Luz is OUT FOR BLOOD in this episode. Can we… can we appreciate that she felt like she had to pay back Eda for anything, as if just being in her life wasn’t enough? And that in her last moments conscious, Eda made this clear to Luz? Luz is someone who’s always thinking about what she can do for others, that sometimes she forgets herself. She underestimates how much she can mean to OTHERS, and now…

           She KNOWS how much she means to Eda! And it’s tearing her up inside that she FAILED Eda, that she wasn’t good enough… She must feel like a failure, because her attempt to heal Eda got her captured and cursed! And she must hate herself, and King waiting for her… That cold twist on the ending title! I knew this episode was Agony of a Witch, but it really was TRUE agony.

           I feel like I’m hyperventilating, I almost feel faint… I feel like CRYING, I can’t remember if I’ve ever felt this intense before! The intensity of that duel with Eda and Lilith, Eda really IS the most powerful witch in the Boiling Isles! What’s interesting is that Willow doesn’t directly dispute this, she merely states that Belos is the most skilled…

           Does this have to do with ‘wild magic’, not being restrained by a coven binding? Or is it something more… Eda is glowing with a golden power and summons some sort of Owl Deity, is this the effect of the curse? Is the curse her physically manifesting the power of this being that she’s the avatar of? But Lilith caused the curse, but then again we don’t know WHY the curse was placed… Was it just to restrain her magic? What was Lilith doing…

           This episode was a fucking nightmare for me. The intensity, the FEAR in my heart seeing that flashback of Eda, asleep and so happy… Only for her older sister to open the door, the FEAR in my heart… The BETRAYAL, of a little sister being cursed by her older sibling, it was like something out of a horror movie… This episode BROKE me, I’m shaking I really am I swear…! It’s almost hard to breathe, I…

           Why Lilith, WHY?! You clearly cared so much before, was it just guilt? What was your reasoning?! Why the HELL would you curse your own sister?!

           And Belos! Emperor Belos himself… He’s got a coldly mechanical, yet viscerally biological feel to him, I know I keep invoking Bionicle but it really IS like it, that biomechanical aesthetic! I was right, I WAS RIGHT, that the chasm in the titan’s chest, that the subject of its heart would come into play… It seems that Belos himself penetrated the titan’s sternum and built this mechanical, iron-lung castle around its heart, having total control.

           Why? Is it control the power of the titan’s bile, the magic flowing from its heart? When Belos gets agitated, the heart starts beating faster… Is he the Titan, reincarnated? Or is he a usurper, seeking to control the Titan? To direct the flow of its magic… Could he stop the flow entirely? Does he control bile, or ALL magic, period…?

           I love his mechanical voice, something about him is just… It’s CREEPY, it’s eerie, like he’s barely holding himself together, when he cracks open that creature and gets back his sight… Is he dying, is he incredibly ancient? Has he attached himself to the titan’s own heart and bile to survive? Why does he want control, he claims to be able to speak with the Titan…

           …And so can Luz. More parallels between him and Luz, no doubt. Does he mean well, his VA called Belos ‘misunderstood’ in a sense… Regardless, he is WONDERFULLY creepy, and the way he’s drawn, the shots of him watching silently, it was TERRIFYING… He claims to be the most skilled, does this relate to knowledge from the Titan itself? What of its BRAIN…?

           Oh, god. What if the Titan is DYING, and this Iron Lung castle is meant to keep it alive? Or worse… What if he’s trying to resuscitate the Titan, but with himself in control? Just like Makuta from Bionicle… And he needs BILE to do that! Bile to power its veins, to course through… And what of that furnace, that chimney? What is it burning…

           …Oh god. Remember those jokes about witches being burned? And what Belos alluded to rogue witches without a coven, and what would happen to Lilith?

           Is he harvesting them for bile? Burning them as fuel, as energy to power something?!?

           This episode TERRIFIES me, holy fucking shit. What’s interesting is that the Coven System itself is apparently new, relatively speaking, only about fifty years or so… Eda describes bile magic as having been around long enough for glyphs to be forgotten, but was it really? Did Belos… Did Belos harvest the titan’s bile and graft it to the hearts of others as well?!

           And the atmosphere, the mood around his castle is just so HAUNTING and foreboding… My heart is still racing, people.

           Anyhow, I… I like the beginning, we get to see how messed up Hooty can be beneath it all! And it’s funny that King gets to pop out of the cake first, but not Gus! Eda was making the cloak for Luz, was it in preparation for the day she’d be unable to take care of her? I love the touch of Luz not wanting to go the castle because of the kind of person Belos is, but going just for EDA… And poor Amity! Her broken leg really DID stop her… Maybe that was for the best, though. I don’t think her heart could’ve taken seeing her crush defy the very order she strives to join. On a side note, maybe I’ll need to update my Boscha fic to include the detail of her leg still being broken…

           Belos calls the pre-Coven System the Savage Ages, but was it really? This reeks of colonialism. Whatever he is, I feel like if the mask were to be peeled back, it’d be a scenario of a robot being punctured and explosing FLESH inside… Flesh, I suspect, may not be so well-put together. Flesh barely holding itself together, cooped up inside a metal exoskeleton, more a tin container and a prosthetic than anything… There’s something so disgusting about Belos’ vibes just from this brief clip, like he’s both organic and mechanical, I love it!

           I like the touch of Luz having been in an eating contest, she’s always so wild like that! And jeez Lilith… Her elitist bias really shines here, with how she regards Luz and just tells her to go back to her own world…

           Also, the chest gem is finally acknowledged! Apparently it’s connected to Eda’s magic, after all, or an indicator based on how much the curse is advancing. What do gems do? Are they merely a fixture of the bile sac, or something more? Could Belos’ castle be his attempt at recreating one?

           What’s interesting is that the relics from the ‘Savage Age’ are deemed useless by Lilith, and the Healing Hat so quickly burns and she just dismisses it! Given how she sees this but isn’t at all concerned about Eda not being able to be healed, I imagine Belos had another method and she knew of it…

           And JEEZ Lilith, I had a feeling that you had the flaw of feeling like Eda’s true family and prioritizing what you knew for her as an older sister, feeling more entitled to Eda than Luz!

           I wonder why the relics are weak… ARE they weak, the Greenthumb Gauntlet seemed somewhat powerful? Or did Belos just drain them of power, or maybe they’re fakes? I thought it was sweet for the Oracle orb to say that Gus is always his best self, but now I’m afraid its guidance may not have been so accurate after this revelation…

           Goodness. I’m WEAK. This episode had an increasing sense of foreboding that made my heart race, more and more, slightly easing only to go back to full-pumping! Which makes sense, given the heart-motif of this episode and the setting…

           I’m… I’m done y’all. Peace. I am BREAKING.

[dwellordream]

A Six of Crows Review: Kaz IV through Jesper II

Previously

Kaz IV is pretty gore heavy, which I’m not complaining about, though as far as interrogation tactics go, it feels like Bardugo just really had a hankering to write some eye trauma. I also feel like the pain of that would probably put someone in such a state of shock they’d be unable to speak at all, but whatever, this is a YA dark fantasy novel where teenage boys rip apart wolf jaws and tear out oculars, I guess we’re rolling with it.

You’d think the shock of nearly losing Inej would inspire maybe a modicum of self reflection in Kaz, and honestly his treating Jesper like his valet actually pissed me off on a visceral level, which, to be fair, is the most emotion I’ve ever felt while reading one of his POV chapters.

Thus far I would sum up my problems with Kaz’s character are this: my problem is not that Kaz is not likable or relatable. He doesn’t need to be either, he’s an amoral gangster. My problem is that he’s not terribly believable and he’s not terribly compelling.

I don’t think the wanton violence gives his character more dimension; if anything it reduces him further to a cardboard cut out of say, Tommy Shelby from Peaky Blinders. Bardugo apes a lot of gangster tropes with him but there’s no nuance or meat to it. He doesn’t fascinate me and I don’t care about his backstory or his future.

None of the characters in this book so far are hitting it out of the park, but I am much more invested in Nina, Matthias, and Inej than I am in Kaz, and that’s a problem, since the entire novel arguably revolves around him.

He is the antihero protagonist. He’s directing much of the action as the leader of the Crows. He should be reeling the reader in more. Instead it’s like a brick wall with more intestines slathered on it for edgy effect.

We do get some nice backstory and development for Nina in her second POV. I don’t have much context for the Little Palace or Zoya since I never finished Shadow and Bone, but Bardugo continues to do a decent job at developing Nina and making her feel both strong and vulnerable, as well as a sweet romantic at heart.

We also get some of her backstory with Matthias. I honestly find the trope of ‘we know he’s not quite as bad as the other war criminals because he doesn’t hold with rape!’ to be pretty absurd and despicable, but Matthias and Nina’s dynamic is arguably the only compelling relationship in this story so far, even if he’s a shit person* and she’s a sweetheart.

*Matthias is very particular about not being called a slaver. This, of course, is an important correction, as he and his fellow soldiers weren’t capturing grisha to enslave them, but to put them on sham trials and then exterminate them as part of the Fjerdan nation’s vile agenda. 

Between this and the constant references to his blonde hair, blue eyes, and ‘impressive’ build… it’s hard not to think Bardugo was making some deliberate Nazi allusions. I don’t exactly applaud her for it.

I don’t have anything to say about Inej V other than that Inej’s account of her enslavement is heartbreaking and her and Nina singing together as she recovers from her wound is the only scene so far in this book to make me emotional. I wish more time was spent developing Inej’s friendship with Nina as opposed to her feelings for Kaz.

Finally, Jesper II evaporates the little goodwill I had accumulated from the Nina and Inej chapters tonight, because Jesper is literally a walking camera once more. 

No development. No reflection or interiority. None. I would not have known he was even narrating this chapter if not for the header. It’s almost all dialogue. This is ridiculous. 

#JusticeforJesper

[unsteadygalaxy]

all is soft inside chapter 13

a miragehound multichapter fanfiction

Also posted on Ao3, my username is the same there!

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13. my heart still beats, and my skin still feels

And we're back! Thank you so, so much for your patience on this fic. I never intended for there to be a month in between chapters, but my life took a very sudden and very painful turn a few weeks ago that prevented me from writing for some time. I am unfortunately going through a divorce- something I never expected in a million years to happen. It's been very difficult to write about two characters falling in love while going through something like this. But I feel like I'm doing relatively well, and this chapter helped me to process some of my feelings about everything. Thank you again for your patience, and here we go! This chapter is a little shorter than the last few have been; sorry about that!

Brief reminder that I started writing and planning this fic before Pathfinder's Quest came out, so it does not align with canon. :)

Bloodhound settles the goggles in their lap, their hands eerily still, but Elliott only has eyes for their face. His mouth opens slightly, and he sucks in a light gasp. He never would have thought it possible, but they are so much more beautiful than he remembers. And he’s so close to them, too. Elliott is able to notice the details he had missed before now, like the fact that their gorgeous green eyes have the lightest rim of gold around the pupil. And Bloodhound has freckles! They dust their face lightly, none too prominent, but Elliott’s eyes roam over the constellation of dots, his heart dizzyingly happy. The slopes of their cheekbones are defined and proud, and their jawline is firm. Their pink lips are full and soft, parted slightly as they draw in shaking breaths. Bloodhound’s fire-red hair falls down past their shoulders in damp waves, and Elliott badly wants to run his hands through it. He pushes that desire way, way down to the bottom of his stomach.

The very last thing notices are the scars. All this time, all the moments he’s spent trying to remember them, he had had no recollection of them having scars. The quick glimpse he had got of them hadn’t left time for him to notice any. The presence of them doesn’t bother him at all- in fact, he only thinks they make them look more distinguished and beautiful. The same type of silvery spider web lines that are on their hands stretch across their face, only they’re a little darker. Each scar starts at the edges of their face and stretches inwards towards their nose. The middle of their face is the most unscathed, leaving a spotlight of unmarred ivory skin. Elliott’s eyes roam over their face, and if he wasn’t so enchanted, he might have been embarrassed at his open staring. A faded gash interrupts the softness of their mouth, and another scar slashes vertically through their right eye.

A soft smile crosses his face when he realizes the two of them have a matching scar.

His hand rises unconsciously, without his permission, and he reaches out. To his utter horror, they flinch, and their vulnerable eyes fill with fear. They capture his wrist in a flash, just before his fingers can caress their cheek.

“Nei. Vins- please do not do that ,” they mutter, and their voice is so broken, so afraid, so very unlike them that Elliott’s stomach feels as though it’s been crushed. Their eyes are clouded with such a deep anguish- pain so visceral and real that Elliott cannot hope to understand the depths of it. In this instant, he knows Bloodhound has endured much more than he could ever hope to know or discover, and he feels very, very small.

He’s harshly brought back to reality.

Their grip is tight around his arm, and it startles him. Bloodhound’s eyes flick down to where they’re holding him, and their face falls. They release his arm, and Elliott withdraws, refusing to rub away the light stinging.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “Bloodhound, I-”

“Do not pity me. Please.” Their voice sounds so different without the mask- smoother and a little higher, but still so rich and full. Elliott is lost in it, drowning in the tendrils of smoke their voice emanates so effortlessly. His cheeks blaze and his entire body burns, sinking into the warmth and the fog.

“I-I wasn’t going to. I’m not. Or, I… don’t, I guess.” His hand seeks theirs again, and they flinch again when his bare skin makes contact with theirs. Who hurt them so badly that they’re afraid of holding hands? Elliott mourns, pins and needles piercing his heart into dust at the thought. He can’t take his eyes off theirs, and he drinks in their face like he’s dying of thirst. Sweat gathers between the lines of his palms, and he winces as he feels his palm soften in theirs.

“You’re beautiful.”

He blurts this without thinking, but Elliott believes it with his whole heart. He doesn’t care that they have scars- hell, he’s got some of his own. Dumb ones, cool ones, ones he’s not proud of…. All of them make him who he is, and he wouldn’t change any of them. Bloodhound’s scars look like silver threads stitching their skin together. If they allowed him, he would trace each scar with his fingers, and caress their face until he memorized every curve, every divot, every pathway.

“Ekki grí- Do not joke, Elliott,” they murmur, looking down. Their grip goes limp, and Elliott is too afraid to chase their hand as it retracts. “You are a master of wit, but I do not wish to be the subject of it. Do not lie to me.”

Ouch.

“Bloodhound, I’m not- I don’t-” He groans shortly, distressed with himself for not being able to articulate his feelings. “I’m not joking. I wouldn’t do that. I mean, yeah, I guess you’re right, I would. But not about this.” Their knees are still touching, and Elliott savors the small amount of contact. “Not about you.”

The tiniest bit of happiness breaks through the clouds of grief on their face, and a spike of joy pierces his heart. Bloodhound reaches for his hand and takes it, their grip hesitant at first, then sure. “Thank you, kæri vinur,” they murmur, their voice tight and obscured. “ Your kind heart is a true gipt.”  

Unshed tears arise and linger in their eyes, and Elliott’s body freezes up a little. Should I say something? What do I even say? ‘Sorry for calling you beautiful’? ‘Sorry for making you cry’? Inadequacy begins to surge through his brain, and his shoulders tense up in embarrassment. He’s not the best at this. Comforting his mom is one thing, but comforting someone he’s interested in is a whole different ball game.

Bloodhound’s expression is drawn and tight, and there is no subtlety in what they’re feeling. It strikes him that they’ve never been expressionless like he had assumed; their mask has to be practical for more reasons than one. He wonders what they truly look like when they smile, and his heart leaps a little when he realizes that he’s probably made them smile tons of times- he’s just never had the privilege of seeing the effects of his jokes.

“D...Does it hurt?” he asks, and he immediately feels stupid. The question surprises him on the way out of his mouth- he definitely hadn’t been thinking of asking before.

“What?”

“Your scars. D…Do they hurt?’

They blink in surprise, and their eyes are guarded, but wide. “...Only when it storms.”

As if to articulate their words, a massive bolt of lightning strikes somewhere outside, and thunder follows it immediately. Elliott flinches, and the comforting feeling around them threatens to break, but the warmth of the fire reaches around the two of them, reminding him that this space is safe and uninterrupted by rainfall.

Bloodhound winces ever so slightly, and Elliott realizes with a jolt that their face must be aching. Maybe the mask has some type of pressure system to help? He hopes so, because he can’t imagine being in pain every time it rains. Thinking about Bloodhound hurting makes his stomach twist uncomfortably. He wishes he could hold them in his arms, and the desire to do so is so powerful that before he knows it, he has placed his hand on their cheek ever so softly.

His own cheeks burn, and he stutters, “I- uh-”

“V-Vertu kyrr, kæri vinur,” they whisper, placing a hand over his, and the way they stutter makes his stomach turn curiously. “Be still. Please… please stay there. Your touch is… comforting.”

Elliott freezes, now even more insecure at his sudden breach of their space. But he keeps his hand there, and he stares into their eyes. The longer he looks, the more at ease he feels- all wrapped up in the eager space of their pale green irises, completely lost in the gorgeous expanse of their face. Elliott watches them, feels the way they incline their head ever so gently into their touching hands. He can feel the slight roughness of their scars in his palm, but the feeling does not disgust him. They could never disgust him.

Elliott shifts closer to them, and their breath hitches in their throat. He’s hardly able to believe how nervous and bold he is all at once. With others it’s simple- a bit of flirting, a wink, and a strategic fleeting touch can definitely get him places- but with Bloodhound, it feels like he’s a fawn on new legs, wobbling and struggling to find his balance. All impulses and instincts are out the window, and hell, he’s not even sure if they feel the same way about him. There’s a lot of things he doesn’t know, he realizes, and he inhales sharply when he remembers that one of those things is their name.

“Can I ask what your name is?” he stutters, and he longs to stroke their cheek with the back of his fingers. He settles for brushing his thumb across their face, just under their eye.

Bloodhound inhales sharply, and flinches away from his hand. “No,” they answer quickly, their shoulders tensing and their eyes darting away. A stinging sensation zings through Elliott’s gut, and Bloodhound seems to notice his discomfort as he retracts his hand. “Fyrirgefðu mér,” they murmur, but their voice is much softer, much kinder. “In my culture we believe true names have power, and as such, we leave them behind when we are given a title. Only our family and those we love intimately are given the honor of knowing our true names.” Their cheeks turn a curious pink color, and Elliott’s stomach flips inside him.

“O-Oh.” Disappointment wells in him, and he feels foolish. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable or anything.” His face burns in embarrassment once more, and they take his hand again.

“Do not worry, Elliott. It was an innocent question.” They pause for a moment, brows furrowing as they think. “I have not spoken that name aloud in… twenty-four years. It is quite foreign to me.” They look up and meet Elliott’s eyes. “I… often wonder if I will ever have the occasion to say it aloud again.”

He inhales softly, his lips parting, and a fuzzy sort of shock fills his limbs. Was that… Did they mean…? His mind races and goes blank all at once, and he doesn’t know what to make of it. Surely they didn’t mean him , did they? Is there any chance what they said was an invitation? Even with their full face in view, he can’t tell what they’re thinking. They stare at him, their eyes wide and shining, and he desperately wonders what’s in that beautiful head of theirs.

“I… I think you will,” he murmurs, sliding in closer to them. “There’s not a doubt in my mind. Someone amazing is gonna fall in love with you and… be worthy of hearing that name.” He looks down at the lining of his pants, inspecting it closely and refusing to meet Bloodhound’s gaze. Surely they would just… tell him if they had feelings for him, right? They’ve been direct enough with him this whole time- wouldn’t they just be up front with him?

It strikes him then that they’re sitting right in front of him, face completely bare, presumably in some degree of agony because of the storm, and they’re remaining in agony because of him. They consciously chose to remove their mask in front of him. Bloodhound made the concrete decision to show him their face, and he’s sitting here wondering if they trust him and care for him?

Elliott, you IDIOT.

His head tilts up until his eyes are level with theirs again. Bloodhound stares at him, and their beautiful lips part slightly, their green eyes guarded but yearning all at once. Elliott knows he’s leaping over the edge of something huge here, but still, he leans in slowly, so slowly. He swears his chest is vibrating from how hard his heart is beating, and his hands tremble. His lips are so, so close to theirs, and their breath washes over his chin, cold and… minty? Elliott’s forehead bumps against theirs, and he inhales sharply, wanting so bad to close those last few millimeters of space between him and them. His eyes fall closed, and he leans in…

“Elliott…”

Their voice is barely above a whisper, slipping from their lips in a soft sigh that holds so much meaning and none at all. His eyes fly open and he watches their face carefully, scouring their hills and valleys for any sign of protest or discomfort. He’s frozen in place, his skin sparking where it makes contact with theirs. Can he… should he...

And then they pull away.

Bloodhound does not meet Elliott’s eyes. “Ég get það ekki, ” they whisper, and while Elliott doesn’t understand, the meaning is clear. I can’t.

“I’m sorry,” he says, the cavern of his stomach dissolving into shame. Rejection rises in his throat, coating his airway and tightening it. Slowly, he pulls away, but he keeps their hand in his. “I’m so sorry.”

Bloodhound pulls away from him, stands swiftly, and strides toward the kitchen. Their sudden absence from his side sends a chill down his spine, and disappointment shreds his heart into pieces. He was wrong. How could he have been so wrong? How could he have been so stupid? Bloodhound doesn’t think of him that way- of course they don’t. Why did Elliott even assume they did? What makes him special to them in the slightest? Stupid, stupid Elliott, being nice to someone doesn’t mean they want to jump into your arms, he thinks. They’re probably better off without me, anyway. They don’t need a distraction for the Games. God, I’m stupid. They’re probably not even interested, or maybe-

“It’s that doctor, isn’t it?” he questions, his throat beginning to close up without his permission. He clears it and brushes a nervous hand through his hair. “Boone, or something, right? I mean, he’s really attractive and he speaks your language, so I get it. You said you grew up together, and I just assumed that maybe you guys were just friends, but I guess I just totally misread the situation and you guys are- t-together together, or whatever, I don’t know. That’s fine, that’s totally fine, you know- I’m really sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

“Elliott, please ,” they implore, and their voice comes out stressed and pained. Their face is in their hands, and the firelight flickers across their being, making the drying ends of their hair glow. “It is not Boone. We are not together. We once were, but… that was many years ago.”

Elliott stares, utterly confused and frustrated. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry, but still… why? Did I mess up or say something wrong?”

Bloodhound growls a sigh, a short sound that stings Elliott as it comes. “No,” they answer, their hands going to rub the back of their neck as their body tenses up. “No, you did nothing wrong. I just… I am not worthy of you, kæri vinur. I never will be.”

His jaw drops open and all he can do is stare at them, dumbfounded. Bloodhound? Not worthy of ME? Their back is to him, and he wishes he had the guts to go to them and take them in his arms. “W-What do you mean? You’re not worthy of me? I, uh, I was gonna say it’s the other way around.” Saying it out loud makes a funny feeling leap in his stomach, a feeling that he very much does not like.

A short, sharp sob hisses between their lips, and he’s not even really sure it is a sob. It sounds like a strangled laugh, but he can’t be sure. They turn to face him and he’s alarmed to find tears in their eyes. “I assure you, Elliott. The forréttindi- privilege- of being loved fully and completely was made unavailable to me long ago. There is no denying it, and no retrieving it. I have done too much, hurt too many, k-killed-” Their eyes go impossibly wide, and they slap a hand over their mouth.

Killed?

“...I’ve killed people, too, Bloodhound,” he murmurs, but the admission feels hollow. He hasn’t really killed anyone, not fully and completely. But the memories of broken bodies and spilled blood floats in the forefront of his mind- memories and images that often keep him up at night from how horrifying they are. Being in the Games had given him ample opportunities to be around death, though he had to admit, none of it was permanent. Bloodhound’s slip of the tongue feels… much more damning.

“You do not understand,” they hiss, and even though he knew it was coming, the pitch and force of their words slips a knife between his ribs and twists. “You could never understand.”

“Let me at least try,” he begs, standing from the couch. “Bloodhound, how can I understand if you won’t let me?”

“You do not need to understand, Elliott!” Their voice is desperate, raw, and the timbre of it makes Elliott’s heart ache inside him. Anguish etches into every line and scar of their face, obscuring the kindness and fear he had once seen there. “I will never be worthy of you, and it is directly because of my own aðgerðir og val- actions, choices. I came to terms with that long ago, and I suggest you do the same.” They lock eyes with him finally, their green irises swimming in tears, and their jaw is trembling as they try to keep it in place. “You deserve someone whole, untainted, hreinn og laus við þessar syndir sem ég hef framið-” They slip into their native tongue as sobs begin to press at their frame, and they make no attempt to correct themself.

He takes a few steps forward, holding out a hand to try and take one of theirs. “Bloodhound, I-”

“Don’t .” They push his hand away and step backwards, their heel hitting the corner of the couch. They wince, and Elliott has never wanted anything more than to gather them in his arms and hold them there until their grief was spent. He stares at them, his own lips beginning to tremble, and he swallows back the lump in his throat. He knows there is no changing their mind, no convincing them otherwise, and the lost opportunity hangs between them like a feather caught on an updraft, unlikely to touch down again.

“I think it is best that you leave.” Their voice is tight and low, almost as low as it would be with the mask on. They do not meet his eyes, and instead walk to the door.

Elliott’s body nearly crumbles under the waves of shame and pain crashing over him, but some unseen force keeps him standing. The warmth that had once surrounded them has been replaced by a stark cold, even though the fire still blazes in the hearth. The comfort he had felt was gone, replaced by a grating pain that rubs against him over and over again. “If that’s what you really want,” he replies.

They nod.

He bites his lip as he gathers his shoes and socks and pulls them on. They’re still the slightest bit damp, but he’s numb to the texture of them, too focused on the anguish starting to stir inside his chest. He moves as though he’s in a trance, and his feet carry him to the door. He wants so badly to reach out and touch them again, but there’s an unmistakable wall between them now, and to breach it would be unforgivable.

It’s entirely up to them to scale it now.

Bloodhound opens the door and makes sure to stay behind it. “I am sorry,” they murmur, their jaw still trembling.

“Me too.” He can’t meet their eyes.

Elliott steps out of the apartment and into the hallway, and the door shuts behind him with a soft click.

[bittywitches]

Gone in the Night - Pt. 1

| Schedule + Event Info | Masterlist |

Summary: Y/N and the twins are looking for a fun Halloween adventure, but it seems they’ve gotten more than they bargained for.

Warnings: Explicit Language

Word Count: 3k

A/N: It’s finally here! Hope you guys enjoy this spooky treat <3

Tags -  @brockdolan @livelaughlolobelle @grxysgxrl​ @guiltydols​

•   •   •

The house itself should have been enough of a warning.

It was an old building, the only one in the neighbourhood that hadn’t been torn down to be reconstructed into bigger houses with much less yard space. It’s grey and blackened wooden walls looked brittle. It seemed unreasonable that the house hadn’t toppled over in the late evening breeze, but it stood firm. Even so, it was uninhabitable still, as the skirting around the sides had been torn off. The front porch, however, looked like it had been torn up and out of the ground as if it were a vegetable a farmer had carelessly plucked out of his garden. The wooden support legs from the front could be seen halfway up, pulled through the earth. In Y/N’s mind it seemed only plausible for something like a tornado, maybe an earthquake to have caused that kind of damage, though she knew that wasn’t possible. While California had many earthquakes year round, usually none were great enough to cause too much damage. Plus, she had a deep feeling that this had nothing to do with unpredictable weather. That feeling made her want to puke.

The railing of the porch stood up at an awkward angle, some of the poles snapped and broken, other’s splintered. The backside, the part connected to the house and leading to the door, had sunken into the dirt, so the entire surface was tilted. Looking at it from the front, seeing the empty dark space below the base with the support beams sticking out of the ground, Y/N couldn’t help but feel like the weird positioning of the porch disturbingly resembled a mouth. She found herself leaning to the side, looking past the beams and the staircase into the empty abyss below the porch, as if waiting for something to appear. It seemed childish looking back on it later, but she was half-expecting a pair of glowing yellow eyes to materialize. But she shook her head, scolding herself, because the only thing she’d probably find under there would be a family of raccoons.

The more she stared at the house however, the more things she found that eerily resembled a face. The dirty and tinted windows at the top with their broken shutters and cracked glass felt like a pair of old eyes, watching as people passed by. There was a dormer that was conveniently placed almost directly center of those windows further down, looking like a crooked nose. She could barely see the top of the roof, but noticed missing shingles, underneath them being ashy gray squares, as if bald spots on this menacing figure. And of course, the deep and dark mouth of the porch with it’s rusty wooden teeth did nothing but send shivers up her spine.

Her sickly feeling only intensified when she realized how starkly this reminded her of 29 Neibolt street. This house, however, did not have a number; she could faintly see the markings of a number near the front door, but the metal plates had either been teared off too long ago for the contrast of the wood to show, or the degeneration of the house over time had simply just taken its effect. Either way, Y/N surely was not eager to look back under the porch now; for if she were to be faced with a sickly leper, she’d most definitely shit her pants.

“So, what’ll it be?”

Y/N and her two friends stood on the front lawn of the lean dwelling, the grass beneath them dry and crunching beneath their feet with each step they had taken. It was funny; she wasn’t really sure how they’d even ended up here in the first place. She remembered them deciding to go buy pumpkins… Grayson was eager not to put off decorating any longer. They’d piled into the car, but… had they bought the pumpkins?

“I don’t know man, these are a bit pricey.” Y/N finally looked away from the house at the sound of Ethan’s voice, only for her attention to be caught by the eager man flaunting the tickets in their face.

That’s right, tickets. This was an event of sorts. A haunted house? Something like that, she thought he had said.

“Why, but it’s a buy one get two free special, you won’t find anything else out there,” he spoke, more directly to Y/N than the twins behind her. Of course, they’d been walking down the street- but why again? Was this near the patch they were going to? Whatever the case, the man had seen them passing by, stopped them with his vivacious attitude and grand voice, barking about the great deal on these tickets.

Y/N looked at the man. He wasn’t a pleasant sight to see. His sunken and hollow eyes seemed almost skeletal, his pale skin an ashy color against the darkening sky. He was tall, unsettlingly tall for a man who looked ancient. He was around 6’1, bordering 6’2, which only freaked Y/N out even more considering he loomed over the twins, the two of whom she’d always thought herself to be quite large. The man’s lanky body parts seemed disproportionate to his narrow frame, his bony arms dangling awkwardly from his sides, his hands seeming too big for them. The wrinkled fingers of his left hand gripped firmly onto the tickets, though they did not crinkle or bend under his touch. They alone seemed to be the one thing in front of her that were crisp, clean, perfect. Almost too perfect, and it hit her in a bad way, almost as much as the outfit the old man had on.

His outfit was one you’d see a vintage carnival worker wearing, one who sat inside a ticket booth at the front of a circus, for example. He wore a stiff white dress shirt, blindingly white compared to his stale fingernails and his yellowing, stained, and chipped teeth that showed with every creepy, crooked grin. The shirt was much too large for him, however, the cuffs of the sleeves coming down to his thumbs. But it didn’t feel like it was too big; no, it felt like the man had shriveled up in his clothes, withered down into the frail man he was within the cotton. He had a crisp suit vest on top, with white and red stripes running down vertically. It too seemed weird, awkward, almost like a protective guard more than a piece of clothing. A bright red bow tie was tied at the base of his neck, matching the color of his shoes, but much of them were covered by his overly large white pants. The same pattern of colours were seen on his top hat. It had a short and flat top with a narrow brim, a pattern of red and white lines going around it.

Now, all of this Y/N could get by with. So the man was a little strange, and he was a bit eager to get rid of the tickets in his hand. What was the big deal?

But there was just something about his face that irked her. The details of his wrinkles, the spots on his forehead, the random tufts of hair from his ears and his nose, the dangling ear lobes and the non-existent eyebrows. His sunken in eyes, almost swallowed by his skin, the bags of them highlighting the yellowing whites even more. His terrible cackle, his horrifying grin. All of these things, but something deeper, some other visceral gut reaction within her told her that something was off. She just couldn’t place it.

“What do you say, my lady?” The old man garbled one more time, raising an eyebrow and giving her a toothy grin, only making her shudder once more. The man raised a frail arm towards the house, gesturing towards the door.

“A haunting experience awaits.”

Y/N’s eyes followed his arm and his gaze, settling on the tall black door resting shut. It gave her a similar vibe to the void under the porch, like something was lurking just past that thin piece of wood. It was an ebony black, a stark contrast to the greying planks of the house.  You’d expect the paint to be chipping, but it looked like a fresh coat. It actually seemed to be the one thing from the house that hadn’t been touched by age, other than…

The staircase.

God, why hadn’t she noticed the stair case?

While the porch had been ripped well out of the ground, the staircase leading up to it, the one she had leaned to look around into the darkness under there, was perfectly intact. The wood was still perfectly symmetrical, no splinters, no cracks. It had a different hue compared to the rest of the wood, it didn’t look aged, weathered, or beaten up like the rest of the house did. But how did she not notice it? She swore she looked at it when they first passed by… she’d seen a squirrel scurry across it. It hadn’t looked this new then, did it? No, it seemed blended into the rest of the house, but now… It was distinguishable. It had a presence.

It was still connected to the porch, but somehow still firmly grounded into the earth. This seemed impossible to Y/N, if it was still connected, shouldn’t it also be ripped out of the ground? Wouldn’t there be cracks in the wood from the pressure?

Apparently not. All Y/N could think was that the staircase felt like a long, winding creature. A snake or a serpent grasping onto both ends of this creepy house and the world in front of it, growing and shrinking along with it’s changes to keep it anchored to reality. To provide a pathway to what lies within.

But then again, it could just be her imagination. She had been watching a lot of scary movies recently.

She turned to look behind her at the broad twins, them in their sweaters and sweatpants, Ethan with his hands stuffed into his pockets and Grayson with his hoisted on his hips.

“Sounds like it’ll be fun.” Grayson piped in, a small smile appearing on his face. Y/N’s eyes fluttered over to Ethan’s, and he gave an encouraging nod as well.

She sighed. It was the Halloween season. What better time to get spooked? “Alright. Why not?” She replied and took two wrinkled twenty-dollar bills from the wallet she had stuffed into her back pocket, and handed it to the man, who let out a screechy giggle when he plucked it from her fingers. He placed the three white tickets into Y/N’s hand, leering at her almost maliciously all the while, making her shrivel back.

“A wonderful decision, you won’t regret it.” The man almost carelessly stuffed the money into his back pocket, then clapped his dry hands together.

“Alright folks, “ He threw his arm up in an over the top gesture, His voice seeming to magnify in volume as he did so. “Step through the Stygian door to discover what awaits. Remember-” His other hand came up to suddenly grip Y/N’s arm, his cold palm making her gasp. He drew her close to him, his crooked nose inches from hers when he gave her another foul grin.

“Time is precious.”

He released her, and she stumbled back into the two boys behind her, their arms coming up to keep her balance.

The man stepped back from them, spreading his arms out in a demonstrative gesture as he did.

“Good luck,” he cackled, stopping when his foot met the pavement of the road. He tipped his hat at them and bowed, looking up one last time so they could meet his old eyes. “And have fun escaping.”  

A sudden screech came from behind the group, causing Y/N to jump once more, and the three whipped their heads towards the house. A murder of crows squawked and cawed as they flew from the roof of the house, somehow still clear in the darkening sky. There were so many, it seemed like they were spilling out from inside the house.

Y/N let out a nervous chuckle. “Alright, you sure put a lot of effort into your effects-” she turned around.

But the man was gone.

Another shiver went down her spine. She decided to push that feeling of unease away, however, sure that it was just an act the man was putting up for extra effect.

“That guy gave me the creeps,” Ethan mumbled, and Y/N chuckled at him half-heartedly before clearing  her throat.

“Alright, come on.” She and the twins made their way towards the house.

Y/N hesitated before stepping onto the stairs, cautious of the darkness so close to her now, even more aware of the strangeness of the porch’s architecture.

But she shook her head. She wasn’t going to let a bundle of nerves stop her from having a fun Halloween experience.

She and the boys walked up the steps, the three of them irked that they didn’t hear the expected moans of the floor-boards.

Y/N took a deep breath. She grabbed the black door knob, twisted it, pushed it open, then stepped over the gap caused by the sunken porch, and into the house.

“What in the Hocus Pocus is this?” Ethan asked, getting a laugh out of her and releasing the tension in her tight shoulders.

Inside, they were greeted with a furnished living room, though it still didn’t look like anyone had lived here in decades. The paint was chipping, wallpaper was peeling, the room just felt musty and old. The walls and ceiling were a yellowy colour, with stains covering many spots. A deep maroon carpet at their feet covered the dark brown planks of the floor, and extended into the center of the room, leading to the old rustic looking couches and coffee table arranged in the middle.  A fireplace was placed at the left wall, soot covering the insides and surrounding area, much like the dust covering almost every other surface. A mounted deer rested high above the fireplace, feeling like a sort of gatekeeper for the room they had just entered. It’s dark beady eyes shouldn’t have bothered Y/N as much as they did.

“This is literally some rich dead old white guy’s house.” Grayson finished his brother’s thought, walking into the room, which was dank and dark, the window at the back of the room not helping at all since it had grown late.

“So your guys’ house in fifty years or so.” She followed him, Ethan at her heels behind her.

Ethan scoffed. “Shut up.” He walked past one of the couches, dragging his finger across the leather material only to recoil when he saw how much dust he’d picked up.

“Okay, so where do we start?” Grayson asked, squatting down beside the coffee table. “We’re probably looking for something escape-roomy. A key? A button? Switch?” He ducked his head under it, probably to see if there was anything on the underside.

“I guess so.” She walked past him towards the fireplace, the cobblestone border and burnt up kindling seeming to call at her.

Ethan headed over to a cabinet against the back wall, with some ornate frames settled atop it. Grayson, after finding nothing, got up and walked over to the opposite side of the room, stopping in front of an oak door. He tried the handle, but it was locked. He turned back towards Y/N, and nodded towards the door. “I’m assuming we’re trying to figure out how to get this thing open. To actually start this whole thing up.”

“It’s locked?” Ethan asked.

Grayson rolled his eyes. “No, I just pretended it was for shits and giggles. Yea, dick-for-brains, it’s locked.”

“Damn okay jeez,” He muttered, turning back to the cabinet. “Don’t know what’s got you all worked up.”

Grayson breathed out. “Sorry. Think I’m just a little on edge. Didn’t think I’d be this spooked already.” He turned back to the door, jiggling the handle again before letting his hand fall.

“Yea, that guy was weird…” Y/N crouched down beside the fireplace, leaning her head in to get a better look.

“He looked a million years old.” Grayson added, his voice sounding distant behind her.

“Haha, yea-” Y/N turned her head to the side to look up through the chimney, thinking there may be something hidden up there, only for her eyes to meet two beady red ones.

“Holy SHIT!” She yelled, and screamed when a pair of fluttering leather wings shot down through the chimney and into her face, making her fall on her front into the charcoal and soot of the fireplace.

“Fuck it’s a BAT!” Ethan yelled, flinching away from the spazzing creature.

“GET IT OFF!!” Y/N screeched, pushing herself up and swatting her arms around her. Grayson ran forward to try and help, but the creature swooped down and stuck it’s tiny claws into Y/N’s back pocket, grabbing the three white tickets. Before Grayson could reach it, it flew up into the air, then darted to the other side of the room.

“Are you okay??” Ethan asked, rushing towards Y/N.

“No! That was a fucking BAT-” but she and the boys were interrupted by a loud rattling sound. They turned their heads to see the oak door shaking, almost vibrating, when it finally slammed open with an enormous whooshing sound, a sudden burst of air and wind shooting through the doorway causing the door to slam against the wall, chips of the crumbling paint falling to the floor along with a cloud of dust forming when it did so. The tiny bat, somehow hovering right in front of the door, seemingly unaffected by the currents coming through, flew through the door into the darkness of the other room, still clutching the three tickets in its claws, blending into the sea of black.

The three friends blinked. Slowly, Y/N got up, doing her best to dust herself off before turning to the two brothers, the shocked expressions on their faces still apparent.

“Well,” She pressed her lips together. “I guess it’s begun.”

[okaybutlikeimagine]

really weird hc but i think steve never cries, like it’s not that he doesn’t want to he just can’t??? he’s filled with emotions and he knows he technically should be crying but he just can’t. But billy on the other hand, if you asked him he’d deny it but he cries all. the. time. when he’s angry. when he’s sad. when he’s stressed. when he’s happy and laughing. he just can’t control it.

This is such an interesting headcanon and I DEFINITELY agree!!!! I think it makes perfect sense!!

Bc the way I think about it, Steve’s life has been a lot more performative than Billy’s has, if that makes any sense? Like, I think of Steve’s parents and I think of the kind of terrible people who had a kid just to 1. Pass down the name and 2. Say they have the “perfect family”. Like, they toted Steve out for parties just like Daisy does in Great Gatsby and then they’d hand him off to the sitter or the nanny or the maid or whatever. They didn’t actually want to raise a kid and understand that kid as a person, they wanted a trophy to say: “See this? This proves our relationship is strong and our marriage was worth it.”

And then, in the background, before Steve would be dragged off to whatever private function he was being forced and dressed to attend, his mom would grab him harshly and tightly around his little shoulders and kneel down to look him right in the eye and say: “You behave yourself, understand? There are going to be very important clients there and if you bother us while we’re working, you’re going to be grounded for a whole week. No, two. No toys, TV, nothing. You hear me?” And just imagine a little Steve, about age 5, blinking owlishly at his mom and nodding his head bc of course he can hear her, she’s right in his face, but the only thing he knows about “clients” is that they make his parents yell at each other and that they’re the reason his parents never read him bedtime stories or tuck him in at night

 And I really don’t know a whole lot about like… the lives of the rich and famous, but I just can’t help but imagine Steve’s parents going to parties with the other “elite” in the area. And I use the term “elite” loosely bc i mean… let’s face it…. They still live in Hawkins. They’re definitely rich but it’s not like they’re rubbing elbows with high society over here. They’re the kind of rich, snobby, stuck up people who think they’re better than the people they share a community with. It’s the reason they’re not home very often: they hate being reminded about the fact that they haven’t moved out of Hawkins.

So they go to lots of rich, stuck up parties. And they hold Steve up like a trophy to their friends about how they have a kid already and “where’s yours, Patricia? Oh, don’t have one yet? Are things alright with you and Greg? Oh, just wondering, because if you don’t have a kid yet, well…. Maybe something’s wrong at home…”

and so Steve, with fresh threats swimming in his mind, stands there and smiles and takes all the cheek pinches and head pats even though he’s only a child and is about to fall asleep on his feet because they’ve been walking around meeting people for hours and the other kids won’t play with him because they think he’s “boring” or “stupid” or “poor” (which doesn’t make sense to him bc he’s the richest kid in his preschool as far as he’s aware. He figures the preschools must be different here.) so he puts on a mask even for the other kids. He pretends he doesn’t like playing in the mud or collecting bugs or making jokes about boogers. He puts aside acting like a kid to act like these kids just so he can play with them. Sometimes it works.

And so I think he learned not to cry at a very young age. Honestly, i dunno if you’ve heard about it, but I’m channeling The Who’s Tommy over here. Like, the whole “kid is threatened not to speak about this thing, that he didn’t see this thing, and that he didn’t hear this thing and thus goes deaf, blind, and mute”. And obviously a little less dramatic than that, but Steve’s always been told not to cry. When he would cry he’d get punished. It’s like a weird Pavlovian effect. Ever since he was a kid he was asked to put on a show for everyone, told not to pout or whine or cry, and now he just…. Can’t. He almost fears it. He hears his parents threats, even now at the age of 18, and smiles and laughs rather than cries. And sometimes he cries… that night that Nancy called him bullshit and told him she didn’t love him he went home and ripped a blanket she had (apparently lovelessly) gifted him and broke his lamp and accidentally sliced his foot on the glass of the lightbulb…. and cried and… and it felt like failure. It was only a couple of tears, hot and angry and rolling slowly down his face and he let his throat catch fire as he held everything else back. He was angry with himself at that point, more than anything. He looked himself in the mirror and heard his father’s words of “A Harrington never cries. Are you a true Harrington?” and sucked it all back in and did whatever he could to take his mind off of it, even though everything he did always ended with him fuming about the words over and over again and caused him to end up punching pillows and angrily drinking all the beer out of the fridge.

But Billy’s different.

Billy is a volcano. A volcano of every single emotion you can think of. He experiences them all violently and viciously and they take over his system until his body physically can’t hold back from crying. We SEE him cry multiple times in the show!!! And i like to think it’s bc rather than be toted around, he’s been locked in. where Steve’s parents drag Steve around to different social functions, Neil locks Billy up so he- and no one else -has to look at him. Steve is forced to be around others and put on a mask and Billy is forced to be alone, with just himself and his thoughts. He doesn’t need to mask himself when he’s alone.

And that’s not to say that Billy doesn’t also put on a show for others- because he most definitely does. I think a lot of what he does is performative bc he feels he needs to and his thought process for it lines up with Steve’s for himself: he’s just not good enough. He wasn’t good enough for his mom to stay, he wasn’t good enough for his dad to love in his mother’s absence, he wasn’t and isn’t good enough for anything. So he puts on a show of this big tough guy and he manipulates people and he calls it entertainment.

And this isn’t to say that he didn’t get yelled at for crying, either! Bc he definitely did. He’s gotten hit a few times for tears in his eyes but it was always followed with being locked in his room and being told that he was “embarrassing to watch”... and in the four walls of his room he cried more. Bc growing up, the one thing he found relief in was being sent to his room or even having his room in the first place: it gave him a space to be alone and let his emotions out. And he never tried to, his body always just did it for him. Bc crying is often a very visceral thing, and also a very natural and very human thing. It releases chemicals in your body to help soothe you and lord KNOWS Billy needs to soothe himself bc once his mom left, no one did it for him. His body realizes the emotions that aren’t being sorted and his mind knows when it’s safe (when he’s alone, when Neil’s turned and walking away, when no one can hear) and it cries. I just imagine Billy on constant vibrate, brimming with emotions and filled to the edge with too many things with everything with all of it and he just cries because there’s so few outlets for him. His body has grown accustomed to taking care of itself in that way. And so when he’s had too much (and the threshold on some days if very small), he rushes to his room and slams the door and as soon as it’s latched he’s near drowning in tears bc he needs release.

And let me tell you- it freaks the fuck out of Steve.

Because like you said, Steve just doesn’t cry. And the first time Billy and Steve have sex, Billy cries as he orgasms and Steve freaks. out. He thinks he did something wrong and he’s fretting over Billy and his heart is racing and he’s fighting with himself about if he should hold Billy’s face or step about 5 feet away from him because holy shit what happened??

And Billy feels like an idiot but there’s no stopping his body because he’s so overwhelmed by feeling so good and it’s been a long time coming for him and Steve and after all of that anger and animosity between each other, it was just too much and he cries. And he punches Steve while he’s crying, trying his best to growl but hiccuping around the words instead as he says: “Don’t look at me like that.”

“I’m so sorry Billy, holy shit! What do I do?!” 

“Go get me a tissue, you dumbass!”

And he’s sniffling and blows his nose loud and Steve is in awe that Billy is still such a hardass even with tears running down his eyes.

And this happens a LOT. Every time Billy and Steve have sex, Billy tears up after he orgasms. It’s not always full on waterworks like the first time, but his eyes always water as he lays there with Steve, body lit up and hot like a fucking campfire, and he lays there and breathes and a tear rolls down his cheek and Steve has gotten so used to it that he leans over Billy and kisses the tear right at his cheekbone and whispers how beautiful he is. (and that usually makes Billy tear up even more, to which he shoves Steve with whatever strength he has left and tells him to shut his mouth)

The first time they tell each other “I love you” it’s the same thing. Billy whispers “I love you, too” and there go his tears. His chest heaves and he cries into Steve’s collarbone, gripping Steve’s shirt and Steve just kind of chuckles a bit and rubs Billy’s back and maybe cracks a joke about how he’s “such a sap” and Billy tilts his head so he can bite at Steve’s shoulder and make the boy yelp.

And the first time Billy catches Steve about to cry, he sees that the boy is about to run away. Bc he’s taken notice to the fact that Steve doesn’t cry and he hasn’t brought it up more than twice bc Steve is obviously anxious when he talks about it but Billy gets worried for him bc Steve always acts like he’s okay and Billy knows that’s not good. So when he catches Steve’s eyes watering and then Steve turning to lock himself away somewhere, he grabs the boy in the most forceful hug he can manage so that he can’t squirm away and hide himself and he says: “Don’t run away from me. Are you gonna cry?”

“Billy-”

“Then do it. You’re not a robot.”

“Billy stop I-”

“You’re human, you fucking dumbass.”

“Don’t call me-”

“It’s okay.”

And that makes Steve’s chest heave. He sucks so much air in he squeaks and his chest pushes against Billy’s own and Billy grabs tighter and nuzzles his head into Steve’s neck and whispers.

“You’re safe, Pretty Boy.”

And he stands there and he lets Steve cry. Lets himself be whatever physical and mental support Steve needs as he finally, finally let’s his body take over and just cries.

[wangxiangiftexchange]

Winter Solstice Gift for arisprite

I hope you find something to enjoy in this, @arisprite :)

Read On AO3

*****

This Piece of You

The forest was dark around him, but Wei Wuxian had walked the path often enough that he was confident of finding his way back.

The fruit wine dulled his senses and made his strides loose and careless. At the edge of his awareness he could feel the spirits of the Burial Mounds like a lingering tension in the air, more restless in the night than the day. Enough to know that they would come if he called, and that they would not bother him if he didn’t.

He came to the end of the clear path, to the wards that marked the boundary of the modest haven they had carved out for themselves, and continued past. The path was narrower here, overgrown and in some places nonexistent. He weaved languidly between close-set trunks, the occasional low hanging branch catching at his hair like it wanted to draw him close and hold him there. He brushed them away, and they let him go.

He walked, and his mind swam with thoughts.

He thought of his sister in fine red robes he would never see, and the sting in his side from his brother’s blade. He thought of Wen Ning, pale as death, and Wen Qing’s happy tears, and the indulgent smile she had given him before heading to her bed. He thought of Yuan, the cling of his small hand, his smile as he pulled himself into Lan Zhan’s lap - and Lan Zhan, he thought of Lan Zhan, and he ached.

Only the occasional sliver of moonlight managed to penetrate the thick canopy, and much of the time he made his way by touch and instinct alone. It didn’t matter; he had no destination in mind. He had simply wanted to walk, to be away, just for a while, even as exhaustion and alcohol had dragged at his limbs.

He stumbled, his foot catching on the uneven ground. He caught himself, tree bark rough against his palm.

He thought about duty, and justice, and the kindness of the people he had sworn to protect, and their gratefulness. He thought of the slow, suffocating feeling he dared not name for fear it would overwhelm him. He thought of lakes crammed with lotus leaves, and a table littered with peanut shells and half-drunk cups of liquor, and the crisp air of a mountainside where he and Lan Zhan had - where Lan Zhan —

A rustle of movement ahead of him stopped him in his tracks. It was too regular to be the whisper of the wind through leaves. Anywhere other than the Burial Mounds it might have been an animal of some kind, but none larger than the occasional bird or rodent deigned to live here. As he listened it became louder, and finally coalesced into something recognisable. Footsteps.

He considered hiding, but then, what could truly be a threat to him here? He planted his feet more firmly, his balance swaying only slightly, and pulled Chenqing from his belt.

A breeze shifted the branches above him, scattering moonlight onto the path ahead. It caught on something pale, shifting in the darkness: a figure, familiar to him even at a distance, even in the low light.

He lowered his hand, Chenqing dangling loosely from his fingers, and stared.

Lan Zhan strode towards him, unhurried but purposeful. If he was a hallucination created by Wei Wuxian’s desperate mind he was an eerily accurate one, but it was more likely than Lan Zhan actually being here. Only hours earlier Wei Wuxian had watched him go, and known in his heart that he would likely never see him again - that there was no reason for him to return.

Lan Zhan continued towards him at the same steady pace, and Wei Wuxian realised, belatedly, that in the dark he must not have seen him, though he stood on the path unobscured. He should go to him, or call out, but he found himself frozen where he was, staring dumbly, until they were only a handful of strides apart - when Lan Zhan stopped abruptly, his whole body going tense with surprise, his gaze locked on Wei Wuxian’s.

Wei Wuxian briefly forgot how to breathe.

“Wei Ying?”

His head felt thick and hazy, his thoughts clamouring for attention then slipping away before he could focus on them. Lan Zhan was dressed as he had been earlier in the day - had he gone all the way back to town before returning? What reason could be so urgent that it could not wait until the morning? What reason could be so urgent as to make him come at all?

A shock of concern, suddenly. Had something happened? Was he - no, he looked well, not even a little fatigued, despite the late hour and having apparently made at least some of the journey on foot. He looked wonderful in fact, real and solid and close enough to touch.

His voice returned to him in a rush. “What are you doing here?”

Lan Zhan looked at him for a long, breathless moment. Even with the wash of moonlight it was too dark to read his expression properly, but it seemed clear that if he had an answer, he was struggling to find the words to express it. When he lowered his gaze there was an uncertainty about it, perhaps a hint of sheepishness. He took something he had been holding in his left hand, along with his sword, and held it up with his right.

It took a few seconds for Wei Wuxian, squinting at it through the gloom, to recognise what it was: a thin wooden stick with the shape of a rabbit sitting at one end, the back legs hinged so they moved when shaken. It was one of several toys Lan Zhan had bought earlier that afternoon. He gave a confused laugh. “I don’t…”

“I found it,” said Lan Zhan. He definitely looked uncertain now, but the hand holding the toy didn’t waver. “When I returned to my room. It was in my bag. I must have put it away and forgotten.”

Wei Wuxian laughed again, but it sounded sickly even to himself. Of course. Of course. For a blissful, hopeless moment in between his question and Lan Zhan’s answer he had imagined - well, it didn’t matter. “This is why you came all this way, in the middle of the night?”

With Wei Wuxian having made no move to take the toy, Lan Zhan lowered his arm. “I am due to leave tomorrow.”

“Right.” It shouldn’t have stung the way it did. It shouldn’t have made any difference at all. “You know you shouldn’t have bothered. You bought him so many, he probably wouldn’t have noticed this one was gone.”

“Even so.”

“Aren’t there any children at Cloud Recesses who could have had it?” He felt off-kilter as he spoke, as if the effects of the wine, previously faded, were flooding back to full strength. “Surely even Lan children play with toys.”

An emotion too quick to parse flickered across Lan Zhan’s face. There was a tight pause as he considered his response. “Yes,” he said finally. “But I bought it for him.”

They looked at each other for what felt like too long.

Wei Wuxian’s reactions were sluggish and his self-control weak, but then, Lan Zhan wasn’t breaking eye contact either.

His mind felt crowded again, too many thoughts, moving too fast. “It’s so late,” he said, without really deciding to. “It’s - it’s dangerous to be here so late.”

It was true. For anyone, even someone as powerful as Lan Zhan, to be in this part of the forest alone so late at night was to put oneself at the mercy of the spirits who resided there. They might not attack as such, but they could disorientate, confuse, weaken. A journey that could be taken safely during the day became an entirely different matter in the dark.

Lan Zhan blinked. “You are here.”

“It’s not dangerous for me.” He saw Lan Zhan preparing a response and spoke again quickly before he could give it. “You can’t go back alone.”

This was also true. He couldn’t in good conscience allow it. He could walk with him to the safer road, maybe even further than that, as far as Lan Zhan would let him. They could talk, or not, if Lan Zhan preferred it, it would be enough just to be with him. They could say goodbye properly, again, like friends. He could watch him walk away until he could no longer see him. Or…

“It would be quicker to come back with me, than go back into town.”

Wei Wuxian half expected an argument. Lan Zhan had already refused once, and must know that if he had insisted on heading back to his lodgings, Wei Wuxian would have gone with him.

Yet Lan Zhan nodded without hesitation.

*

Instinctively he had reached for Lan Zhan’s wrist. It had felt good, a visceral confirmation that Lan Zhan was truly there; the way Lan Zhan did not resist, allowing himself to be led along the path. How many times had they done this? How many times had he pulled Lan Zhan along with him, and how many times had Lan Zhan followed, maybe with a little resistance at first, but always staying with him in the end?

He held on for longer than he needed, buoyed by the excuse of the darkness and the rough path. It was only when they reached the wards, and the clearer path beyond, that he reluctantly let go.

“What was your plan, really, Lan Zhan?” He glanced at him, before returning his eyes to the path. “Break the wards, sneak in, wake me in my bed?”

Lan Zhan kept his eyes forward. “I would not expect you to be asleep at this time.”

“Ah, I see.” It was funny, really, the idea of Lan Zhan doing something so spontaneous, so positively reckless, but it didn’t make him feel like laughing. Instead he pictured himself waking to the sight of Lan Zhan at his side, and the thought hurt. He pushed it aside. “You should have stayed, before.”

Lan Zhan didn’t answer. Wei Wuxian, prompted by his silence, turned to look him. He was still staring straight ahead, apparently focused intently on picking his way through the winding path.

“Wen Ning had prepared a feast. They hung lanterns - well, you’ll see when we get there. There was wine.” He watched Lan Zhan duck deftly under a grasping branch. “Though I suppose you wouldn’t care for that.”

As if on cue, the warm glow of the lanterns became visible up ahead, twinkling through the trees.

“Almost welcoming, isn’t it?” He turned to look at Lan Zhan and was overwhelmed, once again, by the sight of him, clear now in the lantern light. It hardly felt real that he was there at all, and perhaps that was why he felt able to reach for him again. There was no excuse for it now the way ahead was well lit, and there was certainly no excuse for him to take Lan Zhan’s hand instead of his wrist, clasping their fingers together. Wei Wuxian found himself grinning, elated at his own audacity.

He led Lan Zhan inside, lighting candles as he went. When they reached the space which could modestly be called his room, he stopped and turned to him.

Lan Zhan looked out of place. It was more stark now than it had been during the day, when Wei Wuxian had played the proud host, covering any shame he felt at his circumstances with stubborn bluster, daring Lan Zhan to pity him. Now, though they stood together almost exactly as they had only hours earlier, he felt exposed. Exhausted, worse for drink, wearing the rough clothes he had walked and run and sweated in for a full day.

And Lan Zhan - Lan Zhan was radiant.

His cheer left him all at once, and he dropped Lan Zhan’s hand.

Instead he reached over and plucked the toy from Lan Zhan’s other hand, more for something to do than for any other reason. He recalled Yuan had not favoured it as much as some of the other toys, which would explain how it got missed. It had been ridiculous, really, the amount Lan Zhan had bought. But it had been sweet, too.

“I’m sorry for what I said before.” He gave the toy an experimental shake, making the rabbit run. “I know Yuan will be pleased to have it back.”

He glanced at Lan Zhan, catching a hint of a smile.

“He asked when you would visit again, you know. Maybe you - I think he would like it, if you gave it to him yourself. He always wakes up early - not as early as you, but - if you stayed. Just until then.”

Lan Zhan swallowed visibly. “Wei Ying, I…”

“I know, I know.” He turned and walked purposefully away to place the toy on an empty ledge near the bed. “You need to leave early tomorrow. I understand, forget I said anything.”

He waited for a response for as long as he could bear. When none came, he took a second to gather himself before turning round. “You must be tired.” He waved awkwardly towards the bed. “It doesn’t look much, but it’s actually quite comfortable.”

Lan Zhan didn’t look tired, as such, but there was that uncertainty in his posture again. His held his right arm a little stiffly by his side, as if unsure what to do with it now Wei Wuxian was no longer holding his hand. His eyes followed Wei Wuxian’s gesture before returning to his face. “I will not take your bed.”

Wei Wuxian should have expected it, he supposed, but it still caught him off guard. “Of course you will,” he said after a beat. “You’re my guest.”

“Where will you sleep?”

“Oh I don’t know.” He shrugged. “I can take a spare blanket on the floor. Or…there’s where Wen Ning— ”

“No.”

Wei Wuxian huffed. “Will you insist on making me a poor host, Lan Zhan?”

It came out more sharply than intended, and while Lan Zhan didn’t quite flinch, his expression tightened in a way that indicated the words had hit their mark.

Wei Wuxian felt suddenly very tired. He turned to the bed - a simple, narrow frame pushed up against the wall. It was in no way designed to accommodate more than one person. He shrugged again, and said lightly, “I suppose we’ll have to share, then.”

As much as Lan Zhan tolerated his touches in small doses, Wei Wuxian knew this would be a step too far. He would relent, Wei Wuxian would spend one uncomfortable night on the ground - far from his first - and it would be worth it.

“Alright.”

“What?”

“I agree.”

Ridiculously, Wei Wuxian felt his face flush. “Okay. Fine. You settle however you like, in that case. I can sleep any way, I don’t mind. How about I go nearest the wall? That way if you’re uncomfortable - I know you don’t like…” The way Lan Zhan was watching him, something in his expression, made him stumble over the words. “What I mean is, you won’t be…hemmed in.”

Lan Zhan seemed to change his mind several times before settling on a quiet, “Thank you.” Then without ceremony, he carefully placed Bichen against the wall and began unfastening the sash at his waist.

There was nowhere for him to put his clothes, Wei Wuxian thought suddenly. He tended to simply bundle his own at the foot of the bed, on those nights he bothered to properly undress at all. But Lan Zhan’s robes were beautiful, he would want to fold them neatly somewhere, where they wouldn’t get covered in dirt or candlewax or…

“Wei Ying.”

“Hm?”

Lan Zhan had removed the sash, which he had indeed folded and placed on the ground beside his sword. His hands hesitated on his outer robe. He made eye contact, briefly, then glanced away. “Are you…”

“Oh. Right, yes.” Wei Wuxian flashed him a smile he didn’t quite feel, and began to undress. A flicker of memory. A different cave. A different time.

If they had found themselves sharing a bed back then, or even a year ago, would it have felt like this? It would have been as unexpected. It would, he was sure, have caused the same spark of excitement. But there was a weight to it now that would not have been present before. An illicitness. Lan Zhan should not be here. Wei Wuxian should not get to have the honour of his company, let alone his touch.

Lan Zhan did not strip to his underclothes, stopping once he was down to a plain white inner robe and ensuring each removed item was folded and placed perfectly atop the pile. He seemed intently focused on doing so, his face turned away from Wei Wuxian to complete the task. Lastly he removed his hair ornaments, until only a single hair tie and the ribbon across his forehead remained.

When Lan Zhan finally turned round, Wei Wuxian was struck by the intimacy of it. He looked - not younger, exactly, but softer, bare in a way Wei Wuxian did not recall ever seeing him before. Even on those rare occasions when they had shared rooms, they had always allowed each other a certain level of respectful privacy. If Wei Wuxian had ever glanced Lan Zhan in a less than put together state, it had been accidental or a necessity.

This was the first time, he realised, that Lan Zhan was not only allowing it, but offering it.

The process of getting into the bed was fraught. He insisted Lan Zhan lie down first, then once he was settled, slid himself in the space between him and the wall. Even with Lan Zhan clearly making an effort to allow him as much room as he could, neither of them were small men and there could be no way for them to avoid being pressed up against each other.

He tried not to look at Lan Zhan as he arranged himself in the small space, but he caught a glance of him regardless: lying stiffly on his back, arms tucked close to his body, eyes resolutely downcast, and the faintest, barely there blush across his cheeks.

He turned to face the wall, tucking and untucking the blanket around himself, until Lan Zhan very quietly said his name in a way that he understood as a polite but firm request for him to lie still.

He tried to remember the last time he had shared a bed with another person. He recalled, vaguely, a couple of occasions when he and Jiang Cheng had still shared a room - his brother, scared from a nightmare, wordlessly shoving Wei Wuxian over until there was room for him under the covers, never mentioning it the following day. He remembered how it was to be squashed together with another person, not comfortable, exactly, but comforting.

There was the ache again, that hollowness he tried to ignore, flaring at the thought. When he had first noticed it he had pictured it where his golden core had been, as if he was cold there because that piece of him had been scooped out. But in truth, the feeling was more recent than that. Since he had left Lotus Pier. Since Jiang Cheng had put the wound in his side.

The Wens were so good, and they worked hard, all of them, to make this home. He could not claim to be uncared for. There was always Wen Qing’s hand on his shoulder, Yuan’s small arms wrapped tight round his thigh.

He thought of Jiang Cheng, arms crossed grumpily but leaning into his embrace anyway. He thought of his sister’s hand smoothing down his hair.

Then he closed his eyes and could only think of Lan Zhan: the outside of his arm pressed between Wei Wuxian’s shoulder blades. His quiet breaths, shallower and faster than they should be at rest. The warmth of him.

He slipped into sleep by degrees.

*

He dreamed of fractured things, flickering images, fleeting emotions. Lotus Pier, the courtyards washed red. Cloud Recesses in flames. Bodies hanging from gates, not daring to look closer to discover their faces. Wen Qing, pale and tight-lipped, tearing out the very heart of him. The forest closing in, skeletal branches reaching for Wen Ning, roots dragging Yuan beneath the soil. Corpses clawing their way out of the earth and turning to him, expectant.

You cannot protect them without us.

Don’t you want to protect them?

Wei Wuxian.

You need us.

You need…

“Wei Ying.”

It was a whisper, so quiet he thought he might have imagined it. He listened in case it came again, but he heard only a heartbeat, steady against his ear.

His head lay not on the pillow, but on something firmer, warmer. Silk-soft fabric against his cheek. A touch, light against his hair, the weight of an arm across his waist, keeping him in place. If it was a dream - if it was a dream, he —

He opened his eyes and saw his own hand a short distance from his face, resting against Lan Zhan’s chest, fingers curled into the neckline of his robe. He should probably feel awkward, but he did not. He felt loose with sleep, calm even with the vestiges of the nightmares lingering in his consciousness.

He felt, for the first time in many, many months, safe.

Still, he must have shifted without realising, or his breathing changed, because after a moment Lan Zhan’s hold on him loosened and the hand on his hair moved away.

Reluctantly, he lifted his head. Dizziness rushed at him and he squeezed his eyes shut against it until he had shifted back far enough to lay on the pillow.

Lan Zhan remained on his back, looking up at the ceiling. Sharing the pillow like this, he was close enough to see the flutter of Lan Zhan’s eyelashes. Close enough that when he felt a tickle along the bridge of his nose, he could not be sure whether the cause was Lan Zhan’s hair or his own. Like this, it would take hardly any movement at all for Wei Wuxian to press his lips to Lan Zhan’s cheek, or nuzzle against his neck.

As soon as the thought formed, he struggled to think of anything else.

“Lan Zhan...” His voice cracked, and he could taste the residue of wine on his tongue.

“You kicked me.”

It was such an absurd thing for him to say it dragged a dry chuckle from Wei Wuxian’s throat. “I kicked you?”

“While you slept.” His chest rose with a deep breath, and it was only then that Wei Wuxian realised he still had his fingers gripped loosely in his robe. “I tried to wake you, but…”

Wei Wuxian stared at his own hand, unable to look away. Lan Zhan’s skin was so warm against his knuckles.

“I could not. It was the only thing I could think to do. Sorry.”

“You don’t need to be.” He smiled, forcing lightness into his voice. “I was the one being a terrible bedmate. I had no idea that was something I did.”

Minutes passed, and Lan Zhan did not answer. Wei Wuxian wondered if they could go back to sleep like this, if Lan Zhan would allow it, their faces a breath apart and Wei Wuxian holding on to him like an anchor.

“Wei Ying.” Lan Zhan’s gaze remained on the ceiling, and there was a pinched tension faintly visible around his jaw. “What did you dream of?”

It was only then that his sleep-slow brain caught up with the implications of what Lan Zhan had told him. What must he have looked like, kicking out in his sleep hard enough to wake the person next to him, but not waking himself despite that person’s efforts? What ugly state must he have been in, that the only way Lan Zhan - of all people - could think to calm him was by effectively holding him down?

Embarrassment bubbled up inside him - embarrassment, and that familiar defensive defiance that had told him to push Lan Zhan away time and time again. If he had listened to it earlier when they were still in the forest, if he hadn’t been so weak, he could have saved them both this discomfort.

“Wei Ying?” Lan Zhan was looking at him now, his head turned on the pillow to meet his gaze.

“Nothing. I mean, I don’t remember.” There was concern in Lan Zhan’s eyes and Wei Wuxian hated it, and craved it. “Just a nightmare. You must have them too.”

Lan Zhan frowned and glanced away.

If only he would start talking about calming music again, Wei Wuxian thought. About the dangers of using resentful energy. If Lan Zhan would only judge him, he would have something to fight against.

But Lan Zhan said nothing, a worried line between his brows, looking like everything Wei Wuxian wanted and couldn’t have. He walked through a forest of graves in the dark to come to Wei Wuxian’s home. He slept beside him without disgust or fear. He let him touch - he let him keep touching.

“Lan Zhan.” He swallowed, and it did nothing to relieve the sudden lump in his throat. “Did you really come back because of the toy?”

Lan Zhan’s gaze snapped back to his.

Then without warning he was turning, shifting gracefully onto his side to face Wei Wuxian, a mirror of his position. Wei Wuxian’s hand slid from his chest but now they were touching in so many other places - his toes brushing Lan Zhan’s ankle, Lan Zhan’s knees up against his - and their faces were so close they could see nothing but each other. There was still concern in Lan Zhan’s expression, but there was heat too, and a fear that matched Wei Wuxian’s own, and a bravery that Wei Wuxian did not possess.

He only caught a glimpse of this, before Lan Zhan slid closer and brought their mouths together.

It was almost chaste at first, a stillness that came from Wei Wuxian’s surprise, and possibly from Lan Zhan’s as well. It was the sense that Lan Zhan might be moving away, a slight lessening of pressure, that spurred Wei Wuxian to action. He moved without thought, his hand returning to the front of Lan Zhan’s robes, clutching fervently at the material before skirting higher to slip fingers between the collar of the robe and the juncture of his neck and shoulder. He gripped him there, hot skin and taut muscle beneath his palm.

They kissed, and the feel of it thrummed through every part of him. Lan Zhan’s hand was on his arm before moving up, up until he was cradling his jaw. Lan Zhan’s mouth was soft and persistent, and he was trembling - Wei Wuxian could feel it everywhere they touched, and hear it in the breaths that slipped free in those brief moments that their lips parted.

He felt the sting of tears behind his eyelids, an overflow of emotion that he could not control. He pushed through it; the alternative was to stop, and that would be worse.

Eventually they slowed, their grip on each other loosening. Wei Wuxian was the one to separate them, tilting his head so their mouths were apart, but their foreheads rested together. He could feel the metal of Lan Zhan’s ribbon pressing on his skin.

“I did find it.” Lan Zhan’s voice was low, a hint of hoarseness that made Wei Wuxian’s heart skip. “When I was back in my rooms. I did want to return it.”

Wei Wuxian inclined his head in a small nod. His nose brushed against Lan Zhan’s, a barely-there touch, and he had to resist the urge to kiss him again.

“I was not going to. But I - I could not stop thinking about what you said. You told me you had no choice. And I realised - that I do.” He stroked his fingers tentatively along Wei Wuxian’s cheek before resting there, then pulled back to look at him. “So I chose.”

For all Wei Wuxian searched his gaze, he could find no doubt there, not a shred of uncertainty. Lan Zhan looked at him unwaveringly, stubborn, his fingers gentle on Wei Wuxian’s face.

He wanted to laugh, at Lan Zhan’s foolishness. He wanted to cry, at his earnestness.

In the end he did neither. In the end, he let Lan Zhan kiss him again. And finally, for a little while, his thoughts were filled with only this.

[cosplayinamerica]

Tony from Die Hard : rdmncosplay / photo : scifideity

Tony, by himself, without the sweater and blood, is just a grey sweat-panted weirdo.  Doesn’t get a second glance.  Or a lot of “wait, I know this, you are.........(and lots of memory recall)” lol!  In the context of the group, however, I think it would blow people’s minds, to have the WHOLE Nakatomi crew.

Dead Tony gets some cool acknowledgement, especially when I’m seated, lol!  Now that they are selling an Ugly Christmas sweater with the Ho-Ho-Ho, people might not know how much work went into both versions of Tony, LoL!  But I really can’t wait to get the group together, I think that would go over really well!

This was originally supposed to be a group effort.  I’m part of the Finest, the G.I. Joe costume club, and one of our members, mentioned that in a suit, he looks a bit like Alan Rickman, as Hans Gruber.  So the wheels started turning, and Die Hard’s 30th Anniversary was coming up (at the time) so we thought, “Wait, what if we do the entire Nakatomi Terrorist crew!!!”  So we all started assembling our respective kits, but interest kinda fizzled, (because, hey, LIFE!) but I thought if I finish mine, maybe that will jump start everyone to jump in again 👍🏼

Well, I’m naturally a redhead (greying now🙀) so Tony’s blonde hair immediately screamed WIG!  I grabbed from Arda Wigs, and then it was styled by my Barber’s daughter Teresa. If I upgrade the wig, it’s a smidge too short in the bangs, but everything else is perfect. 

It’s not a simple sweat suit, it’s sweat pants and a knitted sweater. Once I found the right color and knit pattern sweater (I went through ordering five!) then it was modding it to be a mock-turtle kneck. (It’s not a crew neck nor a turtle neck) I sewed it to lay exactly as it does on him. 

The lettering on the sweater is just red sharpie, and I tried to match the spacing so it would land the same height And width on me as it does on him.  (Not end up under an arm or something). 

For a test fit, I ordered two, and the larger size, I used for the Ho-Ho-Ho, sweater.  The fitted sized I use for the pre-death Tony. I also made sure to get the correct military style watch. I have a black Dickies shoulder bag with the label cut off, that is his bag with the detonators.  I actually asked a friend of mine who is a professional Santa, about good Santa Hats, (the internet offerings are super cheap or not the right style.) mine came with the puffball/snow ball at the cap end, on a string, so I cut off the string and sewed the ball directly to the cap.

 In the scenes where you see his feet,Tony is wearing black ankle height sneakers, NOT boots (when McClane kicks his ill-fitting footwear aside, it’s a boot, but all other scenes show a sneaker, so I went with a black Dickies industrial sneaker, that’s a pretty close approximate style to those shown.  Black socks.  Grey champion sweatpants. (making sure they are a shade or two lighter then sweater.  Black Wire-frame glasses. (Etsy) I usually wear glasses but as my costuming went deeper I use contacts a lot more now. 

The MP5A3/HK95 was actually really difficult to come by.  Airsoft companies made MP5’s all the time, but since that are not as popular anymore, finding a cheap used model, or a cheap spring operated version was proving to be problematic.  I found a non-functional, super-cheap Airsoft model on e-bay, sans magazine. How hard could grabbing a magazine be, right?  Well...the particular Airsoft model I bought, it’s magazine had a particular depth and mechanical function.  I bought every MP5 mag I could find, but none fit.

Finally I found the correct mag, in Airsoft stores in Europe, but they wouldn’t ship to the US.  So I paid a Finest Member to order them for me, have them shipped to England to the member, then from England to here.  Goes to show you, sometimes you thing what should be an easy challenge, is just the opposite!  I have a background as a body-painter, so then it’s a matter of matching the screen shots of Tony’s face wounds, on myself.  Being careful to remember I’m copying a non-mirrored image!

I love researching.  I’ll spend hours to find the exact perfect, facsimile of an item to get it to look awesome and accurate.  Now that’s where I differ from a lot of prop buffs.  I have no desire to have a collection or screen worn item, and some props, screen accurate but not used, can be too cost prohibitive, for me.  So I love getting an item close, but then detailing it out to be exact, or building it myself. 

I have a background in illustration, and I love putting things together, so it all fits.  I love just making things, and I love the details.  For instance when McClane takes Tony’s ID, Tony has a royal blue shirt on under the sweater, so, I wear a royal blue tank top (because, hey, SWEATER it’s hot!) under the sweater as Tony!  Things don’t have to “work” per-say, but if that prop has 3 knobs and two buttons, I’m making sure mine also has 3 knobs, and two buttons!   You will NEVER have enough time. 

Deadlines are FANTASTIC motivators 😳😝, but you really need to give yourself time to prototype, refine, and finish. Also be forgiving of yourself to debut a version that can be subsequently upgraded, if it’s not “exactly” where you want it, first time out. 

I love making people happy or geek out.  Sure it’s awesome when someone nails something, but when you see something that is simple but effective or crazy complicated down to the last rivet, I I appreciate both. 

Both sides of my brain appreciate the blood sweat and tears of pouring your soul into something, as well as the simplest creative work-around that achieves the same end result, a smile, a laugh, an ohhhh!, or an awesome for either the work put in, the simplicity of the solution, or the creativity of the idea, or solution to a design problem, and of course, the overall final look.  I just love and support it all : ). I especially love that since we are not being followed by a green screen, or ILM, EVERYTHING costumers do is a “practical effect”.  It works, right there, in front of you.  Even if you are using some sort of tech (like an iPad) having it work in front of me, here and now, and not “fixing it in post” is what always amazes me. 

Sure, photoshopped images with added effects and atmosphere are great and some talented people really make them outstanding, don’t get me wrong, but the visceral effect, right in front of me, and the reactions to in (costumer, and fab and vice versa) is what I really love.

[luminousbeansarewe]

wandering stars

ch 19: cronos

pairings: none || rating: teen || characters: original characters, original clone trooper characters, mace windu

tags: hospitals

chapter list

tagged: @yourbitchystudentartist​ @vultures-and-scavengers​ @tupdidtherightthing​ ​(message me or reply if you’d like to be tagged!)

*************************************************

Republic Pelta-class frigate Harbinger, en route to Coruscant, 21BBY

    Inside the ship, there was an ever present low hum of the hyperdrive as it slid through the streams between light. The barracks inside it were divided into rooms that had six beds apiece, and looking outside the viewport at the surreal ripple of hyperspace was a little dizzying for most clones the first time around. 

    It was far from Sol’s first time. She gazed into it, not really paying much attention as her thoughts ran like akk dogs chasing rodents through her mind. 

    “You alright, there?” came a voice through the haze. She turned to look at Swift, who was sitting on the bunk across from her. Down below, Stone had settled into a bed and started to drift off. Grip was pouring over a datapad, and on the next bunk Twofer was idly polishing his DC-17. Not that it needed polishing, just yet, but he carried on anyway. 

    “Yeah,” she replied with a little smile. “Just. A lot on my mind.”

    “Well, to be fair, a lot of crazy shit just happened,” Twofer said with his drying rag between his teeth. 

    “Wonder when we’ll get our first deployment?” Grip mused below. 

    “Soon enough, I’m sure,” Sol murmured. “The war is very much still on.” 

    “I heard fresh troops get sent to boring places.” Twofer’s voice was clearer this time, having pulled the rag out of his mouth so he could fold it and wipe down the barrel of his blaster.

    “Not commandos,” Sol said. “We get chucked right out into the thick of it.” 

    She could nearly feel Twofer’s smile. 

    “Aw, so no sightseeing on our first assignment, Sarge?” Swift was grinning. She blinked for a moment, still a little confused by her new title. It had come to her as unexpectedly as everything else in her life, though what startled her was how much more welcome it was than the rest.

    “For you, everything’s sightseeing,” she replied. “Welcome to the rest of the galaxy, verde. You still might get to see a few things I told stories about.”

    “Hope the holovid’s as good as the book was,” Grip said, and the others laughed. 

-----

Kamino, Tipoca City, Clone Military Educational Complex, ten hours prior

    Coming to in a medical bay was something Sol figured she might have to get used to, but she would never relish it. Her body was a little stiff, and she shifted to move her arm against the brilliant lights. 

    “See, sir, I told you she wouldn’t be long,” she heard someone say— Swift, of course. The voices of her squad were as familiar as her own already. 

    “I’m not surprised,” came another voice with the barest hint of a chuckle. This one was not a clone. It was a voice she hadn’t heard in a year. 

    “Master Windu?” she said, turning her head and blinking. 

    “Yes, Sol, it’s me.”

    “Where’s Grip? Is he okay?” 

    “He’s fine,” Swift said, nodding and casting his eyes behind her. Turning the other way, she saw Grip sleeping soundly on the next bed over, the rise and fall of his chest a reassuring tide beneath the blanket that covered his bandages. 

    “Jate,” she murmured, smiling. “And you and Twofer?” 

    “Also fine.” 

    “It sounds like you had quite the adventure on your last day of training,” Mace said, his cool bemusement appropriately collared. 

    “It was… strange,” Sol replied, shaking her head. “I hope we kriffing passed.”

    “You swearing like a soldier, now?” 

    “Sorry, Master. I just… after all that…”

    “You passed. Don’t worry.” Now he was almost smiling. This was the most pleasant Mace Windu had ever been in her presence, his eternally serious expression traded for a subdued pleasure. “In fact, you passed with flying colors. I hear you’re as good as any commando.”

    “Maybe better,” Swift chimed in, casually sincere. Sol felt her face flush a little. She wasn’t used to compliments. And that one was a stretch. 

    “Congratulations, young one. If you’re up to the task, I have an offer for you.” Now she felt her heart thud at Mace’s words, knowing the next chapter was about to open. Wondering if she would like it, if it would make more sense than any of the others had.

    “Yes, Master?” she asked, voice a little quiet. 

    “The Grand Army of the Republic and the Jedi Council are prepared to offer you the position of Commander of the 707th Battalion,” he told her, clasping his hands before him. 

    Several feelings struck her at once. The first was elation— she’d done it. She’d done something worthwhile, had proven herself worthy of leadership. If being turned down for the Temple Guard had been painful, this was almost healing in its effect. But even as that little joy broke out over her face, she faltered. Her eyes cut up to Swift, whose expression was frozen in a pained attempt to smile.

    What about the boys? 

    She moved her fingers to grip at the blanket around her waist. It struck her very suddenly that her joints were aching. She almost hadn’t noticed, but the chip was gone. The world felt right again. Like it always had. Uncomfortable, but familiar, and viscerally real. Which meant that Nala Se had done as she’d rather brashly asked, before she’d lost consciousness. She looked down at her hands, then over at Grip, then back at Swift. Twofer and Stone were somewhere, she didn’t know where, but their faces flashed in her mind. 

    “Sir…” she began, hesitating, feeling the fear wrap itself around her throat. Anakin’s words from what felt like a lifetime ago were in the back of her mind. About choosing what she really wanted to do, instead of letting the Jedi or anyone else pick it for her. “Ori’vor’e, for your gracious offer. I’m deeply honored. But I want to stay with Cronos Squad.” 

    Mace’s eyebrows lifted, but his expression had fallen opaque. “A commando squad?” 

    “Yes, Master.” 

    “First of all, you don’t need to call me Master anymore. You can just call me General,” he said, and she could swear he was teasing her. “Second of all, if that is what you really want, then I think it would be unkind of me to push you into anything else. But these men have been asked to join the Special Operations Brigade. They’ll be taking on sensitive, dangerous missions, possibly in the heart of enemy territory. They’ll also be called upon to assist the Jedi Generals whenever and wherever they’re needed on the front lines. Are you certain?” 

    “Yes.” There was barely a breath between his question and her answer. He’d never seen her so sure of anything. Behind him, Swift was now grinning a mile wide. 

    “Alright then, Sol Tannor. Consider yourself a member of Cronos Squad,” Mace said with a sober smile. 

    Yes! came loud whispers from behind the nearby curtain that partitioned off the hospital beds, and Swift rolled his eyes. 

    “Just come out, you two,” he said, and Stone and Twofer rounded the corner. Twofer’s grin was ever smug, but Stone just looked happy. “We kinda hoped you’d say that,” Swift admitted a little sheepishly. 

    “You gonna ask her?” Twofer nudged Swift’s arm, raising an eyebrow. 

    “Ask me what?” Sol asked, brow furrowed in confusion. 

    “Er, well. We… we’d like you to be Sergeant of the squad, if you’re willing,” Swift said, tucking his hands behind his back and standing a little straighter. Sol just blinked for a moment, taken aback for what felt like the tenth time since she’d come to only minutes before. “We talked about it,” the clone added. “Before the Citadel, even.”

    “You—” Tears were brimming in her golden eyes, and her surprised blinks had turned into furious attempts to keep them at bay. “Sergeant?” 

    “Yes,” Swift confirmed, nodding. It was that nod the clones reserved for their commanding officers. All she could do was nod back for a moment. 

    “I’d be honored, verde,” she said finally around the lump in her throat. All three of them smiled. 

    “I can’t wait to tell Grip when he wakes up,” Twofer murmured to Stone. 

    “Well, it sounds like you’ve found your place, young one,” Mace said, suddenly very serene as he looked down at her. “As soon as you and your men are healed, you’ll be fitted with fresh armor and moved to Coruscant, to stay at the GAR Headquarters until you’re assigned your first deployment.” 

    “Vor’e. Thank you, General,” she said, giving him her Mandalorian nod. 

    “Thank you, Sol. For your willingness to help us win this war. I look forward to serving beside you.” He offered her a bow— a strange thing for him to do, now that he was her CO, she thought— and turned to exit the medical bay, the clones standing at attention as he passed by. Just as he reached the door, he stopped and looked back at her. “Oh, and you missed graduation.” With his barely perceptible grin, he vanished into the hallway. 

    “Graduation is boring, anyway,” Swift said, and all three of them drew close to her bed and tugged out stools. “Now, are you gonna tell us about what the kriff happened with Apma?”

    “Yeah, half your bones were dislocated after that!” Twofer added.

    “Wayii,” she groaned. “I just woke up!” 

[obtusemedia]

Top 25 songs of 2020: Honorable mentions

2020 was not a good year in many respects. But despite the world collapsing around us, there was a shocking amount of great new music.

Some of 2020′s best songs were a good fit for this terrifying year — we’ll get to those ones much, much later in the countdown. But 2020 also gave us gorgeous folk ballads, euphoric dance music and infectiously fun pop and hip-hop that had nothing to do with COVID-19 or any other awful aspects of the year.

Before we get to the proper list, here are 15 nearly-as-good songs that juuuust missed the cut, listed in alphabetical order by the artist’s name.

“Shimmy” by Aminé

Oregon’s most prominent rapper — okay, fine, Oregon’s only prominent rapper — came out of the gates blazing this year with “Shimmy.” 

Aminé may have heavily sampled Ol’ Dirty Bastard’s classic “Shimmy Shimmy Ya” on his second album’s leadoff single, but he replaces ODB’s chaotic vibes with a cold, snarling precision. He almost evokes Pusha T in his gleeful takedown of his rivals over the ice-cold beat. Pair this banger with one of the year’s best music videos, and there’s no doubt it would sneak onto this list.

“Dakiti” by Bad Bunny and Jhay Cortez

I am all about this nocturnal, new wave-y style of reggaeton. The melody is catchy as hell, yet the production has a sinister, chilly vibe that wouldn’t sound out of place on an Italians Do It Better complication. 

Megastar Bad Bunny’s husky vocals and Jhay Cortez’s more nasally voice make for a fun contrast as they trade verses. It’s a winning and charismatic combination!

“Boomer” by Bartees Strange

When you hear the phrase “rap-rock,” you’re likely shuddering at the thought of Limp Bizkit. But that style can work, as promising new artist Bartees Strange — stage name of D.C. alt-rocker Bartees Leon Cox — proves on “Boomer.”

Cox spices up a solid mall-punk banger with some rap verses. And unlike the Fred Dursts of the world, he can actually, you know, rap. 

But it’s the song’s explosive chorus, where Cox unleashes his howling vocals over charging guitars, where “Boomer” goes from an interesting song to a great one. If there’s any justice, he’ll be rising up the indie ranks very soon.

“Kyoto” by Phoebe Bridgers

I think I might be the only music nerd who didn’t adore Phoebe Bridgers’ new album, Punisher. For me, her mix of hushed, mostly-sincere singer-songwriter ballads with snarky lyrics just came off as tonally awkward. Her quips about Scientology and outlet malls in otherwise-sad ballads left a sour note for me.

But Bridgers’ unique songwriting style shines most on the few uptempo songs on Punisher, particularly “Kyoto.” Her goofy non sequiturs fit much better in a driving, anthemic song. And I’m immediately primed to enjoy any tune with a strong resemblance to Sufjan Stevens’ “Chicago.”

“Dynamite” by BTS

I’m not sure what it says about me that I didn’t learn to love BTS, the insanely-beloved South Korean boy band, until they finally recorded a song in English. 

It’s not that I dislike their earlier, Korean-language stuff — “Boy With Luv” in particular is a banger. And BTS’ English-language lyrics on “Dynamite” don’t really have any meaning (they’re basically just a bunch of random catchphrases jammed together ... but they do sound good).

But there’s something immediate and pristine about “Dynamite” that makes it impossible to not adore. It’s a little too cleanly produced to be on the level of the Bruno Mars hits BTS were clearly aping, but the sense of fun is infectious. At the very least, it’s on equal footing with Taio Cruz’s classic of the same name.

“Comeback” by Carly Rae Jepsen feat. Bleachers

Carly Rae Jepsen can knock out wistful synthpop nuggets like this in her sleep. So can Jack Antonoff, who produced the track and provides some backing vocals. 

But just because this isn’t anything new for the duo doesn’t mean the winning formula’s gone stale. “Comeback” is a worthy addition to both of their catalogues.

“Hollywood” by Car Seat Headrest

I can’t, in good conscience, put this song in the top 25. It’s an intentionally abrasive misfire from the Seattle indie rockers, who’ve done much better. Complaining about the vapidness and sleaziness of Hollywood is an overplayed topic, and letting side members of the band rap some of the verses (in goofy voices, no less) was maybe not the best call.

...but at the same time, there’s something to this objectively bad song that I keep returning to. Maybe it’s the embarrassing bluntness of the lyrics. Maybe it’s the forceful guitar riff. Maybe it’s because the aggro, visceral nature of “Hollywood” makes it a perfect workout song. Maybe it’s the goodwill left over from Car Seat Headrest’s last two albums, which were both stone-cold indie rock classics. I’m not sure! 

But even though I know it’s not a good enough song to make the proper list, I can’t lie to myself and leave it out of the honorable mentions. It’s a banger in spite of itself.

“24 Hours” by Georgia

"24 Hours” is the best possible version of a left-of-center synthpop club banger. 

What makes it great — the pulsating energy, Georgia’s yearning vocals, the “whoo!” vocal samples — are obvious on immediate listen. But perhaps what makes “24 Hours” worthy of this list is its replay factor. It came out in January, and it still sounds great 11 months later.

“1985″ by Freddie Gibbs and The Alchemist (song starts at 1:35)

We already knew — thanks to his two collaborative albums with Madlib — that Freddie Gibbs’ gruff flow sounds incredible over dusty samples. So why not team up with another producer who does something similar?

“1985″ is a prime example of knowing one’s strengths. The Alchemist’s production is stunningly gorgeous in his typical style, with a soaring guitar solo and a shuffling, dreamy beat. Gibbs pounces on it with the same ferocious street-life verses he’s been spitting for years. I’m glad to see Gibbs has figured out exactly which production sounds best for him to make Tiger King jokes and tell coke-dealing stories.

“Say Something” by Kylie Minogue

Aussie icon Kylie Minogue has been at it for 33 years at this point, reminding us every decade or so exactly why she’s stuck around.

“Say Something” is one of those reminder tracks — a burbling, irresistible, futuristic-yet-retro disco banger. The production is stellar, from the clanging guitar riff to the bouncy synth bass, and Minogue has a winking confidence on the track like she’s been doing this for decades (which, of course, she has). It’s exactly what you want out of a bubblegum pop jam.

“Right Round The Clock” by Sorry

With their very-British boy-girl dueling vocals, new London indie rock outfit Sorry definitely have more of a whiff of The xx. But instead of hyper-minimalist, whispered tunes, “Right Round The Clock” has a thundering, droll swagger that grabs you by the throat when the chorus comes slamming in.

The thumping, piano-based sound of “Clock” has a bit of a jazzy flair, thanks to the flecks of sax that pop in here and there. And Sorry interpolates Tears For Fears’ classic “Mad World” in a gloriously tongue-in-cheek way on the chorus (at the very least, it’s far superior to that awful gloom-and-doom Donnie Darko cover).

“Brooklyn Bridge To Chorus” by The Strokes

In a year FILLED with improbable comebacks from ‘00s and ‘90s artists (we’ll get some of to them in the top 25!), The Strokes may have been the least likely. The early ‘00s indie rock standard-bearers had been in sharp decline for nearly 15 years before their new album, The New Abnormal, dropped and the group returned to form.

“Brooklyn Bridge To Chorus” is a prime example of The Strokes’ invigorating comeback. It’s a killer new-wave jam that could’ve been been written by The Cars, with its jittery keyboards and impossibly catchy chorus. And of course, The Strokes’ most valuable asset — lead singer Julian Casablancas’ impossibly cool vocals — is here in full force. 

It’s not quite Is This It, but “Brooklyn Bridge To Chorus” is still The Strokes’ best song in 14 years.

“Spotlight” by Jessie Ware

After a career making increasingly dull ballads, “Spotlight,” and Ware’s new What’s Your Pleasure? album, is a refreshing change of pace into sleek dance-pop. 

I don’t know if “classy” has ever been used to describe disco, but that’s the best way to describe “Spotlight.” It’s undoubtably a dancefloor filler, with a funky groove and ‘70s string stabs, but there’s also a stateliness to it. It could fit equally well at Studio 54 as it would at a black-tie affair. I credit Ware with that, using her breathy vocals and charisma to strong effect here.

“Lilacs” by Waxahatchee

Any time you can write a song that sounds like an outtake from Tom Petty’s Wildflowers, I’m on board. 

That’s a bit of a reductive way to describe “Lilacs” — Katie Crutchfield’s vocals are much more fiery, for starters. But there’s something nostalgic and welcoming about this southern-fried folk-rock song with oblique lyrics and catchy hooks for days.

“Mood” by 24kGoldn feat. iann dior

Much of this new wave of emo-influenced rap isn’t really my thing. Maybe I’ve grown out of super-angsty and blunt songs about depression? Although I still love Smashing Pumpkins, so maybe that’s not the case. I can’t really answer why I don’t adore Juice WRLD or Lil Peep like so many others seem to.

But “Mood” — an unabashed sell-out, watered-down version of that sound – immediately clicked for me. I know 24kGoldn is trend-riding here, and that this is essentially a wildly shallow pop song. BUT! It’s a really catchy wildly shallow pop song! With bouncy pop-punk production that sounds like trap-ified Blink-182! (okay, it’s much better than that sounds, but you get the point)

I allow myself a guilty pleasure or two on my lists. “Mood” is one of those guilty pleasures this year. As the kids (presumably still?) say, it’s a vibe.

[satonthelotuspier]

❄️ Untamed Winter Fest 2019 ❄️

Day 30 - Wish - 1.4k

The form this fic takes is mostly exerpts from correspondence between WWX/JC. I think the idea was probably better than the execution in the end but this is the concept I wanted to go with for Wish.

This does take place in the same verse as from Day 13 and Day 29 but you don’t need to have read either, Day 13 involves the cave mentioned in this fic and both include the discussions that set this up, in summary.

Disclaimer: I’ve never given myself this level of sad from writing before - maybe my poor execution didn’t get it across very well but if you want to avoid sads I’d probably give it a miss just in case.

The letter was waiting for Wei Wuxian when he returned to the Jingshi that evening. He knew it’s origin due to the familiar lotus seal. He took the letter and a jar of Emperor’s Smile which Lan Wangji had left out for him and walked out on to the veranda to read it.

The aggressive, bold script was definitely Jiang Cheng’s, but he read the content several times, at first convinced he’d misunderstood. The letter was neither addressed nor signed, but it didn’t need to be.

Jiang Cheng to Wei Wuxian

I wish my brother knew that I listened while we were trapped in the cave. That I heard him and deep down I wanted that too.

I wish he knew how much this grief had consumed me and eaten me up from the inside until there was nothing else left for years.

Someone said to me recently that now all accounts are settled its time to look to the future and let go of the past.

I wish I knew if that was possible, but I want it to be.

I wish my brother knew that I will try, that I want to make the things I said in that cave no longer true.

Wei Wuxian wasn’t sure how he felt and found himself pacing, trying to digest both what Jiang Cheng was and also wasn’t saying.

And really he felt a flare of pride at him, because wasn’t he adapting the best he could to the circumstances to make the best chance of making himself understood?

It was incredibly insightful of him.

Jiang Cheng wasn’t comfortable talking about his emotions; he never had been and his mouth and temper often ran away with themselves. This was without a doubt the best way for him to calmly and logically approach this kind of discussion. You had to consider what words were put into a letter, meaning it was thought out. If you were angry you had time to calm down and think better of what you’d written, whereas words couldn’t be unsaid. And it was so much easier to say some things when you didn’t have to verbalise them in the presence of the other person, especially when you weren’t actually writing to that person, but instead to some nebulous, unnamed entity.

And most importantly it was cathartic.

He dashed back into the Jingshi and put a brush, ink and paper out onto the desk and began to write in his own rushed, careless hand.

Wei Wuxian to Jiang Cheng

I wish my brother knew how happy I was that I had the opportunity to speak person to person with him in the cave, even though what we discussed wasn’t easy for either of us.

I wish he knew that talking through the hard, hurtful things is an important first step to being able to let them go, so even though what we discussed was mostly at odds, they were things that needed to be said.

I wish there was a magic that could erase the past, or dull it’s effects. I would have never ever hurt him or any of my family on purpose.

I wish I could have protected them all; I promised Madam Yu so faithfully, yet still failed in everything but one thing; saving his cultivation.

I wish I knew whether being honest from the start with my brother would have made any kind of difference to the outcome.

Jiang Cheng to Wei Wuxian

I wish my brother knew it wasn’t his responsibility to look after us, he was as much a child as the rest of us. There were schemes within schemes none of us could have guessed at and we were all equally pawns.

I’ve often thought of how much I regretted being so easily manipulated into leaving his side after the Sunshot Campaign. I wish he knew that.

I was so young and naive, easily lead and too concerned over what others thought of me. I wish I’d told them all to fuck off as was my first instinct.

But what they did, the whispers in the ear, was insidious and easily overlooked by an inexperienced boy struggling to build up a destroyed sect from the ashes of Lotus Pier.

Wei Wuxian to Jiang Cheng

I wish my brother understood that I didn’t blame him for being easily manipulated, the forces at work were masters of the underhand and fooled the entire cultivation world for years.

I would never deny it still hurt though.

It was lonely and scary to be the only thing standing between those innocent people and destruction.

I wish I hadn’t tried to interact with the world at all; if I’d just stayed on the Burial Mounds and given no-one a target to aim at I wonder if everyone would still be alive. I failed the Wen’s as completely as I failed my own family

If there was one thing that that I would struggle to forgive my brother for it would be abandoning his principles to cold hard revenge, taken on innocent people. I wish he knew that and I wish he knew that I will never understand that.

Jiang Cheng to Wei Wuxian

I wish my brother understood what was happening in the cultivation world at that point and what kind of compelling lies were being spread.

I wish you understood you’d have been that target no matter what.

It was easy to look back after the second siege of the Burial Mounds, after the Guanyin Temple and see the lies for what they were.

In the time since Yunping I’ve had time to consider the issue of our golden core. I wish you’d never given it to me. I would have rather died then than allow you to do that for me. I wish the Wen’s had killed me sooner and you’d been given no chance.

I’d rip it out now and give it you back if the only person in the world who was capable of transferring it wasn’t gone.

How fucking dare you make that kind of decision for me, Wei Wuxian? I wish you knew how much I hated you for that, when the world thinks I should have been on my knees thanking you.

I would have rather died. I was ready to when I drew the Wen guards away from you on the street in Yiling. Why didn’t they just cut me down there? I knew that it would be death when they caught me. I fucking wish it had been, why did you have to save that empty broken husk I became? I didn’t want to be saved.

The correspondence had become more emotionally charged over time which was to be expected; both the letters Wei Wuxian had sent and received occasionally had traces of tear stains on them, but this latest showed Jiang Cheng had lost all ability to separate his emotions from the subject and he’d fallen into addressing Wei Wuxian directly instead of that imaginary third correspondent which had kept them both relatively safe.

It was probably the reason Jiang Cheng’s final revelation; the secret he’d held close to his heart for twenty years had finally come to the fore, because he’d let his emotions write the letter and not his brain.

And the truth, finally told, broke Wei Wuxian’s heart in two. He had thought there couldn’t be anything left in this world that was able to hurt him; he had been so wrong.

He wept long into the night, folded in Lan Wangji’s comforting embrace. For the first time it didn’t help, because all he could think about was that no one had been there to hold his brother when his world had collapsed around him.

Despite Wen Ning’s best intentions he’d been told about “their” golden core in anger and whether he’d deserved it or not it would have ripped him apart as viscerally as his own disclosure had to Wei Wuxian; yet there would have been no comforting arms or soft words to ease Jiang Cheng’s pain.

He knew himself what it was to be lonely and scared and bearing a huge weight of indebtedness to someone you knew you could never possibly pay back.

It was a long time before he could bear the thought of picking up a brush again to reply.