#paint correction cost

[bernardisgross]

i use csp on my tablet all the time but tbh i'm kinda pissed that i pay yearly what i paid for the windows version on pc that i almost never open bc i can't get it to work smoothly (and my computer isn't the problem)... like.. i know about the updates and ok, do that if you've concluded that it's the best for you, but i wish there was a one time puchase option if you don't care about all the updates bc, tbh i probably use 10% of csp's potential mdrr...

but i definitely can't do everything i need to do with just procreate so :I

anyways.. it's been the same thing forever, i've never been able to find ONE software that has it all, and i just have to use 3 (and another one i don't pay for 🙄)

[i was gonna say that in the tags but !!!! try csp for free before you buy it !!!!!!!!!!!!! just asking around isn't enough... see if your pc can run it, and if you can get the pens to work smoothly first !!!]

[coridallasmultipass]

I hate when my phone won't let me have 2 audio sources running at the same time (depending on the app). I know what I'm doing, let me hear the discordant noises. My brain has built-in audio separation for music. It came as compensation for auditory processing issues. Don't make me pause the music.

[h-worksrambles]

HUGE endgame spoilers for Expedition 33 below. Do not read if you haven’t completed the game.

The most heart wrenching thing about Clair Obscur’s ending is that no matter what you pick, the whole scenario is set up so that someone gets screwed over. Maelle and Verso’s respective traumas have shaped them in such a way that their ideals are completely at an impasse. To side with one is to rob the other of agency, even if it may well be doing what is best for them.

If you pick Verso, he is finally freed from the shackles of his immortality. Remember not only was this entire Canvas made specifically for him, he isn’t even truly Verso. And he’s been trapped in that existential nightmare for too long. Bound to memories that he knows aren’t his. And we finally let him claim agency over his mortality and let him go out on his own terms. But at what cost?

The Dessendres, as an outlet for their grief, made an entire world of living, thinking people, and consigned them to a ticking clock apocalypse because they got caught up in their creators’ family drama. And you’ve spent dozens of hours in this world connecting with it, coming to love these characters and fighting to give them a future. And just when it seems they finally have one, Verso takes it away. To take Verso’s side is to agree with Renoir, that this painted world isn’t real and doesn’t matter.

I love that the game makes you linger on every member of your party as they Gommage. Monoco and Esquie have known Verso longest and they saw this coming. They simply hug him and fade away without complaint. Sciel, despite how hard she fought to save this world has had enough experience with death to understand why Verso did what he did, and wordlessly empathises with him. But Lune? She just sits there. Coldly. She doesn’t offer sympathy. She doesn't offer forgiveness. Because Verso lied to her. Again. Despite getting attached, he stabbed everyone he’s come to bond with in the back (and those were relationships you developed and fostered as a gameplay mechanic).

And what about Maelle? Yes, rationally, this is the correct choice. Leaving the canvas gives her a shot at healing. And at Verso’s funeral we can see glimpses that maybe the fractured family has a chance to reconcile. But we have to rob Maelle of all agency. To force her back into a world of pain, consign her to a life altering disability. Maelle treasures her family as both Alicia and Maelle equally. But she is ultimately giving up a family either way. Her birth family or her painted one. But she didn’t even get the luxury of choice, after we just fought so hard to give her the agency her father denied her. So we basically sacrificed the very world we fought to save, just for the slim chance that Maelle might get therapy.

So does that make the Maelle ending better? Unfortunately no, because Christ this is a horror story (and the one I got on my playthrough). On the one hand, it seems like the one where everyone got what they wanted. Gustave, Sophie and all those who Gommaged are restored. All these people whose chances at life were stolen from them by the machinations of the Dessendres get a chance at life. And Maelle has clearly given Verso the ability to age, so he will one day die as he wishes, but can live a full life until that happens.

And yet, we come back to that point. The Dessendres are basically gods to the Canvas. That fact can never be put back in the box. Maelle’s relationship with her loved ones will never be the same. However much she loves them, however benevolent her intentions, they’re always going to puppets playing out their existence to make her happy. Letting Verso age might be a kindness in the same way sending Maelle back to her family was, but in the same way, it strips him of any agency. He’s literally performing for her on a stage. Symbolic of how that power dynamic of Painter and Painted will forever linger over them. She will never truly have her brother back.

Furthermore, that (absolutely terrifying) smash cut to Maelle with painted eyes like the Paintress shows the true horror of this. If choosing Verso meant validating Renoir, then choosing Maelle calls Aline to mind. Maelle, like Aline, is left drowning herself in a dream, chasing catharsis in a world she controls. It’s a gentle rule, but a rule nonetheless. She will always be a god, and her found family will always be her creations, and that may well drive her to lose herself as it did her mother.

Verso’s ending was a cruel vivisection, one where the treatment was arguably more extreme than the result. Cutting everything away chasing an uncertain future. Maelle’s ending preserves life, but offers only stagnation. Even after defeating both Aline, and Renoir, both Maelle and Verso were ultimately shaped by their parents, and repeat their perspectives. Even at this final choice one that is theoretically theirs without their parents’ influences, they can’t shake off their legacy of grief and pain. As such, there is no golden ending for these two traumatised souls. It’s too late for that. There is only cruel necessity or gentle delusion.

Both endings come with their share of disturbing implications, and both can make sense to a player at the time. A player might agree with one of the two in the moment but be horrified at the consequences. Like Verso said ‘we’re all hypocrites’ none of these choices are pleasant. The Dessendres’ grief, and the lives they toyed with as a result, will have consequences one way or another.

Ultimately, I would pick Verso’s ending as the lesser evil, if only because it offers some kind of hope that SOMETHING good may come with this. Maybe the family really can move on. Maybe tomorrow will finally come, as the game’s been constantly saying. But you as the player, are still gonna have to carry the weight of Lune’s cold, judgemental stare. Remember how much you threw for even the slimmest chance at another outcome. Is that arguably better than leaving Maelle to a prison of her own making, to nothing but stagnation? Maybe, but that doesn’t make the alternative any less pleasant…

Verso’s ending left me at least hoping that something good may come from it, while wondering if it was worth the cost. Maelle’s ending left me hollow, realising that nothing good could come from this.

Clair Obscur’s ending is definitely hitting notes I’ve seen in other stories and even other RPGs. The need to accept suffering as an inevitable part of life and not hide away from it in fantasy. The fact that the first step to moving on from grief is acceptance. The way parents shape their children and how crucial it is to let them make their own decisions. How easy it is to cling to control after grappling with loss. But the way it leverages the player’s attachment to the world and people of the canvas makes for one of the most thoughtful examples of that narrative. Even if the people of the canvas aren’t ‘real’ they’re still people with hopes and dreams and rich inner lives. And the fact that their only options are oblivion or to forcibly play house with their well meaning but misguided teenage god is a horrible prospect.

Clair Obscur is about grief. It’s about its cyclical nature. About how if we don’t learn to move on from it, it will ripple onwards to our children. But it’s also about how grief causes us to affect the world around us. The horrific cruelty of the canvas’ fate (Verso included) reminds us how we can end up treating others when we’re blinded by our own inner demons.

It’s a brilliantly done conflict to wrap up a brilliantly made game. And one that will likely go down as one of my favourites.

[cleovee]

+　๋࣭ ✴︎ ARISTOTLE | Ollie Bearman x smart-student!reader

Summary: A math genius and a rising racer meet by chance, constantly challenging each other. What begins as playful debates slowly grows into something more, making them question where they truly belong.

Warning: Um kinda out-of-character ollie ig

Notes: I literally wrote this on class because I’m so bored, so this might be kinda messy but I’ll fix it later (if I remember it tho-) And this is kinda long so i hope u enjoy it <3

Y/N had always lived in a world of numbers, equations, and the thrill of solving problems that most people found impossible. At sixteen, she was already a prodigy in the math olympiad scene, effortlessly tackling problems that left even seasoned mathematicians impressed.

But then, she met Ollie Bearman.

She had seen his name before—a rising star in Ferrari’s junior program. Nineteen years old, fast, confident, and already making waves in Formula 2, with whispers of an impending F1 seat growing louder. He was a name that mattered in motorsport, but to Y/N, he had been nothing more than just a name.

She found herself standing in the Ferrari garage, an unwilling spectator as cars roared through the narrow streets of Monte Carlo. Unlike the rest of the team, she wasn’t watching the cars themselves but the screens, the numbers flashing in real time, painting a picture of the race beyond what the eye could see.

That was when he noticed her.

Ollie pulled off his helmet, shaking out his damp curls, still breathless from the session. He had expected to be met with the usual engineers, mechanics, or even an occasional sponsor’s representative. Instead, his gaze landed on her—a girl who looked out of place, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the screen rather than the track.

“You don’t look like a racing fan.” he remarked, walking over.

“Because I’m not.” she replied without looking up. “But I like the real-time data. And you brake later than most in Turn 4. It’s an unnecessary risk.”

Ollie blinked, momentarily caught off guard. Then, to her irritation, he grinned.

“Risk is part of racing.”

“And probability says it’ll cost you a race if you keep doing it.”

His grin widened. “Let me guess, an engineer?”

“Unemployed.” she corrected.

He tilted his head, intrigued. “So, what’s your verdict? Am I good or just lucky?”

She hesitated. Math was clean and predictable. Racing was not. It was a tangled mess of speed, instinct, and physics-defying precision. And yet, even she had to admit that Ollie’s driving wasn’t reckless—it was calculated, refined in a way that most people wouldn’t notice. “You calculate your risks well. It’s not all instinct, even if you pretend it is.”

Ollie smirked. “So, you have been watching.”

“Only because my dad makes me.”

At that, Ollie raised an eyebrow. He had a feeling she wasn’t just any guest in the Ferrari garage. “Wait, who’s your dad?”

Before she could answer, a deep voice cut in. “Y/N, I see you’ve met Ollie.” Ollie turned and felt his stomach drop slightly. Standing behind her was none other than the CEO of Ferrari himself.

Oh. His easygoing confidence flickered for just a second. “Ah. That explains a lot.”

To most people, Y/N’s father was one of the most powerful figures in Formula 1. To her, he was simply the reason she had spent more weekends at racetracks than she cared to count. She gave Ollie a knowing look. “Told you I don’t have a choice.”

From that moment on, Ollie seemed to make it his mission to get under her skin. At every race she attended, he sought her out, tossing math problems at her just to see if she’d take the bait (she always did). In return, she picked apart his driving with ruthless precision, pointing out every inefficiency like a strategist rather than a fan.

—

One evening, after hours of solving functional equations for preparation for the International Mathematical Olympiad, Y/N sat at the dinner table with her family. Her two older siblings, Kai and Isa, had been listening to their dad talk about Ferrari’s recent races.

“So, Dad.” Isa started, smirking. “Are we going to talk about how your daughter is lowkey running strategy for Ferrari?”

“I am not running strategy.” Y/N said immediately, stabbing her fork into her food.

“But you could.” Kai pointed out. “Dad literally offered you a spot.”

“Not a real spot.” she muttered.

Their father sighed. “She’s brilliant with numbers, but she refuses to apply them where they matter most.”

“They matter in math.” Y/N shot back.

Kai leaned back. “Okay, but let’s be real. Why are you really turning it down? Is it the pressure? Or…” He smirked. “Would working in F1 mean seeing a certain driver more often?”

Isa grinned. “Ohhh, this just got soooo interesting.”

Y/N groaned. “You guys are ridiculous.”

Her mother, who had been quiet, finally spoke up. “You should do what makes you happy. Whether that’s math or racing—just make sure it’s your choice. Not something you’re avoiding.” Y/N hesitated.

She had been avoiding it, hadn’t she?

But it wasn’t because of Ollie.

Or at least, that’s what she told herself.

—

Her presence in the paddock didn’t go unnoticed. Carlos was the first to bring it up. “You and Bearman seem close.” he mused after bumping into her in the hospitality area.

Lewis, who had been listening in, smirked. “More than close. Kid looked like he was waiting for her approval after his last win.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “I’ve seen him stare at telemetry less intensely than he looks at you.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “You’re all being ridiculous.”

“Are we?” Charles grinned. “Because Ollie is watching you right now.”

She turned, and sure enough, across the paddock, Ollie was mid-conversation with an engineer but still stealing glances at her. The moment their eyes met, he smirked and gave her a lazy salute before turning back to his conversation.

Kimi Antonelli, the youngest among them, just chuckled. “You should probably just put him out of his misery.”

Y/N ignored them.

Mostly.

“So, when’s this big math thing?” Ollie asked, catching up with her after a long day in the paddock.

“July.” she answered.

“Alright. If you win a medal, I’ll let you call strategy for my next race.”

She raised an eyebrow. “And if I don’t?”

“Then I take you on a hot lap, and you have to admit that racing is cooler than doing equations.”

It was a ridiculous bet.

But Ollie looked so smug, so certain he’d win, that she couldn’t help herself. “Fine.” she agreed, shaking his hand. And for the first time in her life, she wasn’t sure which outcome she wanted more.

—

Despite their deal, Y/N and Ollie had fallen into a routine. She was deep in training for the olympiad, and he was busy racing across Europe, but somehow, they still found time for each other.

Their conversations started out competitive, Ollie sending her video clips of his best overtakes, asking for her "mathematical analysis," just to get a reaction.

Ollie: be honest, did I calculate my braking perfectly or what?

Y/N: you cut it too close in Turn 7

Y/N: if you keep doing that, probability says you’ll get penalized eventually

Ollie: probability also says I’ll pull it off every time.

Y/N: that’s not how probability works??

Ollie: that’s how I work :)

At some point, the conversations became… more. Late-night texts about nothing and everything. Ollie asking about her training, even though he barely understood half of what she was saying. Y/N watching his races, even when she pretended she didn’t care.

One evening, she was deep into a geometry proof when her phone buzzed.

Ollie: do you ever take breaks, or do you just absorb math through osmosis?

Y/N: breaks are inefficient.

Ollie: you know what else is inefficient? overworking your brain until it melts.

She sighed, rubbing her temples.

Y/N: and what do you suggest i do instead?

Ollie: something fun

Y/N: define ‘fun’

Ollie: call me XD

She hesitated. Their texts were one thing, but a call? It was different. But before she could overthink it, she hit the button. Ollie picked up instantly. “Wow. Didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

“You said fun. I’m testing your definition.”

His chuckle sent a strange warmth through her. “Alright, genius. Let’s see if I can impress you with something other than lap times.”

They talked for hours. About racing, about numbers, about everything in between. It was easy. Natural. And maybe, just maybe, she didn’t mind it.

—

The weekend of the Monaco Grand Prix arrived, and Y/N found herself back in the Ferrari garage, standing in the same spot where she had first met Ollie. She wasn’t a racing fan. She kept telling herself that. But her eyes still sought out the timing screens, scanning for his name.

He was starting P3. A solid position. But Monaco was unforgiving. Overtaking here was a different kind of battle—one that required both patience and risk. As the race began, she gripped her headset tighter than she intended.

Lap after lap, Ollie stayed behind the two leaders, waiting. Her father, standing beside her, noticed. “He’s playing the long game.”

Y/N nodded, focused. “Like he should.” With ten laps to go, the car ahead made a mistake. A lock-up.

Y/N held her breath.

Ollie pounced.

A daring move down the inside of Turn 10. Inches from disaster. She exhaled as he made it stick. Now, it was just him and the leader.

“Come on, Bearman.” she whispered.

With five laps left, she saw it before it even happened. The leader’s tires were gone. Ollie had managed his perfectly.

One chance. A gap opened. He took it.

The Ferrari garage erupted as Ollie crossed the finish line first. Y/N let out a breath she didn’t realize she had been holding. But the moment that hit her the hardest?

His first radio message.

“This win goes to my strategist.”

Her heart skipped. He found her in the celebrations, helmet off, eyes searching—until they locked onto hers. And suddenly, it wasn’t just about the race.

For the Bearman, racing had always been everything. It was all he had ever wanted. But lately, something had changed. It started with little things—how he’d instinctively look for Y/N in the paddock, how her absence at a race bothered him more than he’d admit, how their late-night texts had become something he needed rather than just enjoyed.

Then came the bigger realization. The moment he won, he didn’t think about the trophy, the team, or the celebrations.

He wondered what she would say. Would she analyze his lap times? Admit he was right about Turn 4? And that’s when it hit him.

He was completely, absolutely in love with her

—

Ollie had barely made it through his post-race interviews before the questions shifted. “So Ollie, your radio message—who’s ‘your strategist’?”

Ollie chuckled, shaking his head. “Just someone who keeps me in check.”

“More important than your race engineer?”

“She’d say yes.”

The reporters paused “She? So, it’s a girl?”

Ollie sighed, but the grin never left his face. "Next question." The speculation exploded. Social media flooded with theories, blurry pictures of him talking to Y/N in the paddock, clips of their earlier interactions.

Her dad wasn’t surprised. "You should have known he wouldn’t keep it quiet."

“I did know.” she muttered, scrolling through an article titled ‘Ollie Bearman’s Secret Strategist: The Genius Behind the Headset?’

Isa sent her a text on their groupchat.

Isa: girl u are literally trending rn

Kai: do we get paddock passes🥺🥺

Y/N: lol no

She was still debating how to handle it when her phone buzzed again.

Ollie: pls tell me ur not mad

Y/N: mad? no, slightly horrified? yas

Ollie: at least they didn’t find our bet lol

Y/N: give em some time

She could practically hear his laughter through the screen.

—

Y/N had never been one to get attached easily. But Ollie? He had a way of making it impossible to keep her distance.

It started with the small things. The way he always found her in the Ferrari hospitality unit, plopping down across from her with that infuriatingly easygoing grin. The way he’d text her after every race, win or lose, as if her opinion mattered more than anyone else’s. And the way he made her care about racing.

“You seem happier lately.” Charles Leclerc teased one evening in the Ferrari motorhome.

Y/N barely glanced up from her laptop. “And you’re getting slower in Sector 2.”

Carlos Sainz, sitting beside Charles, burst out laughing. “She got you there, mate.” Charles rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, his gaze flicked toward Ollie, who was casually leaning against the doorway, watching Y/N with that same look he always had when she wasn’t paying attention.

Carlos smirked. “So, when are you two admitting it?”

Y/N frowned. “Admitting what?”

“That you like each other,” Max Verstappen cut in from the other side of the room, completely unbothered as he scrolled through his phone. “It’s obvious.”

Y/N scoffed. “We’re friends.”

“Sure.” Max drawled. “And I drive slow.” Lewis Hamilton, who had been silently sipping his tea, finally looked up. “It’s fine if you’re in denial. Just don’t let it distract you. Relationships in F1 are complicated.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Good thing we’re not in one, then.”

Ollie, who had been suspiciously quiet this whole time, finally spoke. “Yet.” The room fell silent.

Y/N’s head snapped up. “Excuse me?”

Ollie grinned. “I said ‘yet.’”

Carlos let out a low whistle. “Bold move, boy.”

Y/N, meanwhile, felt her face heat up. She was used to Ollie’s teasing, but this? This felt different. “You’re insufferable.” she muttered, focusing back on her laptop.

“Maybe,” Ollie said easily. “But you’re still stuck with me.”

And the worst part? He was right. But now, there was something unspoken between them, something neither of them dared to acknowledge.

Until one night in Monza.

It was late, the paddock mostly empty, the distant hum of the circuit lights buzzing overhead. Y/N had stayed behind to finish some work, and Ollie, as usual, had found her.

“You know,” he said, sitting across from her at one of the hospitality tables, “for someone who doesn’t like F1, you spend an awful lot of time in the paddock.”

She shrugged. “Force of habit.”

“Right.” Ollie leaned forward. “Or maybe you just like being around me.”

She snorted. “Delusional.”

He grinned. “I prefer optimistic.” There was a pause. A rare moment of quiet between them. Then Ollie, unusually serious, asked, “Do you ever think about what happens after this?”

“After what?”

“This. Us. Me in F1, you off solving the world’s hardest equations or whatever it is you’ll end up doing.”

Y/N hesitated. Because, for the first time, she realized she didn’t have an answer. Numbers were predictable. Racing was not. And neither was Ollie Bearman. He stepped beside her, hands in his pockets. “So. What did you think?” He said breaking the silence.

“Of the race?” she asked, though they both knew that wasn’t what he meant.

“Of everything.”

The room was quiet for a moment, save for the faint hum of the air conditioning. It was a ridiculous situation—two people who were too proud, too stubborn, yet somehow always orbiting each other.

Ollie exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You know what? No, I’m saying it. You’re—” He paused, visibly struggling with the words. “You’re annoying.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You’re annoying. You always have to be right, you never let me win an argument, and you act like you don’t care when you clearly do.”

She blinked. “First of all, I am always right. Second, you’re the one who keeps picking fights with me. And third—” She faltered for just a second. “I don’t care.”

Ollie let out a dry laugh. “Yeah? Then why do you always wait for my race results before you go to sleep?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Wha- how do you even know that?”

“Because Charles told me. Apparently, you asked about my sprint race before anything else last weekend.”

Damn it, Charles.

Y/N felt her face heat up, but she refused to back down. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Right. Just like how I don’t notice when you’re in the garage, even though I somehow always drive better when you’re watching?”

She swallowed. “Coincidence.”

He huffed, looking almost amused. “You really don’t make this easy.”

“You don’t either.” she muttered. A beat passed. Then another.

And then, with a voice quieter than before, Ollie said, “You know what? I like y- No. I love you.” She stiffened. The words felt so foreign coming from him—blunt, direct, but still carrying that same defiance he always had.

She hesitated for a second too long, so he quickly added, “Not that it matters. I mean, if you’re going to pretend you don’t feel the same way, then—”

“I never said that,” she interrupted.

He froze.

She exhaled slowly. “You’re annoying too. Always teasing, always acting like you don’t care when you obviously do. And it’s exhausting.”

Ollie tilted his head slightly, eyes searching hers. “So, what are you saying?”

She looked away, glaring at the Ferrari logo on the wall as if it would save her. “I’ll give you my answer,” she said quietly, "after my olympiad.”

Ollie blinked. “You’re making me wait?”

“You make me wait every race weekend to see if you actually listen to my advice.”

He groaned, running a hand through his curls. “You are impossible.”

She shot him a glare. “Take it or leave it, Bearman.”

He let out a short laugh. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll take it.” His answering grin was slow, filled with something dangerous—because Ollie Bearman never backed down from a challenge.

—

The International Mathematics Olympiad arrived faster than she expected. Almost 6 weeks of nothing but numbers, equations, and the thrill of proving the impossible. When the final results were announced, she stood on the podium, a gold medal around her neck, her country’s flag draped behind her.

She had done it.

And the first person she texted?

Y/N: i placed first!

Ollie: so that means I get a strategist, right?

Y/N: guess i owe you an answer

Ollie: finally

When she returned home, he was already waiting. She met him at the Ferrari garage—after hours, when most people had already left, and the place was quiet except for the hum of machinery and the faint smell of oil and rubber. Ollie was leaning against the side of his car, arms crossed, but the moment he saw her walk in, his expression softened.

“So,” he said, watching her carefully. “Did solving equations help you figure things out?”

“Yeah,” she said simply. Ollie raised an eyebrow. “And?”

She tilted her head slightly, eyes glinting with something unreadable.

“I like you.” It was so effortless, so blunt, that it completely threw him off. He had expected a debate, some kind of teasing remark, maybe even a dramatic build-up. Not this.

“You—” He blinked, mouth parting slightly. “You really waited this long just to say that?”

She shrugged. “Had to be sure.”

Ollie let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “God, you’re impossible.”

And then—he kissed her.

It wasn’t careful or calculated. It was instinct, reckless and real, like something that had been waiting to happen for too long. She froze for a second, then kissed him back, just as certain.

The sound of a camera shutter snapped them out of it.

Ollie pulled back just enough to glance toward the entrance—where, through the gap in the garage doors, a group of photographers had their lenses pointed directly at them.

His jaw clenched. “You have got to be kidding me.”

She blinked up at him, a little breathless, then exhaled sharply. “Guess we’re making headlines tomorrow.”

Ollie groaned, running a hand through his hair. “Unbelievable.”

—

You’re right, the headlines the next morning were everywhere.

“Ferrari’s Rising Star Ollie Bearman and Mystery Girl—More Than Just Friends?”

“Caught in 4K: Young F1 Driver’s Late-Night Garage Romance!”

At first, people were just trying to figure out who the mystery girl was. But then, someone zoomed in on the photo and noticed about who that girl is.

“WAIT. ISN’T THIS THE GIRL WHO JUST PLACED FIRST AT THE IMO??”

“YOU’RE TELLING ME FERRARI’S FUTURE STAR JUST BAGGED A MATHEMATICAL GENIUS???”

“Ollie Bearman. Sir. How did you pull THAT?”

Ollie nearly threw his phone across the room when he saw the last comment. “You’re kidding me.” he muttered, scrolling through the article. The picture was clear, him and Y/N in the Ferrari garage, mid-kiss. There was no way out of it.

His phone buzzed.

Y/N: wow we’re famous

Ollie: you think this is funny?

Y/N: a little

Ollie: i’m going to eat whoever took that photo.

Y/N: too late, my mom already sent it to all my relatives

Ollie groaned. His face was burning. Great. A few hours later, Y/N showed up at his place, looking way too calm about the whole thing.

“You look way too amused.” Ollie said, arms crossed as he leaned against the doorframe.

She shrugged. “I think it’s funny. Besides, it’s not like we were planning to keep it secret forever.”

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah, but I was hoping for a little control over how people found out.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “You? Control? Ollie, you kissed me first.”

His face turned red instantly. “That’s—shut up.” She smirked, stepping inside and flopping onto his couch like she owned the place. “And now the whole world knows. Congrats, loverboy.”

He groaned. “You’re the worst.”

“You like me, though.”

Ollie sighed, defeated, before sitting beside her. He nudged her shoulder lightly. “Unfortunately.”

She grinned. “Lucky me.”

Despite the chaos, despite the headlines and the teasing texts from the other drivers.

Lewis: Look at our little Ollie, all grown up!

Charles: I expect wedding invites.

Kimi: can you two not do this in the Ferrari garage next time?

He groaned dramatically, but when she laced her fingers through his, he couldn’t help but smile. Maybe the whole world knowing wasn’t so bad. Maybe, for once, he didn’t mind being the center of attention.

Because if there was one thing that mattered more than racing, more than headlines, more than anything—It was her.

© CLEOVEE 2025, please do not translate or repost my fics without my permission.

[nilnether]

So it looks like the people at the CinemaCon saw the beginning of Avatar: Fire and Ash. Including the new title look of fire and ash:

It looks like they saw a lot of the film opening and that a lot of the concept art (and some screenshots from filming) we saw so far is just from this part (there is nothing about Jake being taken prisoner by RDA and Factory Ship).

It starts with all the kids hanging out - both Metkayina and the Sullys and Spider - and watching Windtraders come in while Jake and Neytiri are flying to meet them.

The descriptions of all the kids hangin out togethers seem so cute. And we had picures of Tsireya and Spider and Spider on the back of Payakan.

And then the Ash Na'vi attack.

It seems like some of the fight with Ash Na'vi attacking the Windtraders will happen in the floating mountains or some similar place so there might be more than one of those as I don' think anywhere near Awa'atlu has a bit of this terrain but not in the amounts and size like shown below. So this might be later - maybe after escaping Mangkwan and Ash Na'vi are chasing them here as that chase is supposed to happen in the forest.

The Ash Na'vi kill people and destroy some of the Windtraders ships. And it seems like they kidnap the kids so Jake and Neytiri go to Ash Na'vi land to save them. Since Jake seems to travel to Ash Na'vi village that's probably means the script about the batle there are also correct.

That's when Neytiri fights with Varang and gets injured. The wound is mentioned in the leaked script and Collectors Edition of ATWOW had this concept art with a healed shoulder with stiches still visible.

It looks like either, or most likely both, Neytiri and Lo'ak will channel their grief into hate of humans and wanting to fight them at all cost. It's understendable but it also dangerous. Jake seems to be worried about the cost of that hate and the danger they put themselves in. It makes sense in both cases. Jake at tthe end of A2 understands Lo'ak more and he probably understands why he would want revenge but it's not worth losing another child. Lo'ak doesn't have the experience to think of consequences.

Neytiri has lost so much that it's almost impossible not to go on a warpath. She tried to leave the fight and let go and skypeople hat had followed her and took her child. How could she not want to burn them all of her world. So it seems like such a great foil to make her main antagonist be another Na'vi. The enemy that challenges her view of this conflict. She firmly rejects Spider no matter what so maybe him proving anything about humans or even himself is not the way for her to question her stance. Maybe it's having Na'vi be antithesis to everything she stands for. Some of the descriptions have Varang say “Your goddess has no dominion here” to Neytrir not Kiri after all.

I'm so excited for more Neytiri in A3 and I can't wait to see what her arc is going to be like. This beginning sounds awesome already.

Bu I also like the option of Varang saying that to Kiri because I need to see Kiri's arc too. I'm just not sure Varang is going to know anything about her powers that early on. I don't think anyone really does, not even her, even after she saves Spider but the leaks made her journey of self discovery look super exciting.

We basically get confirmation that Spider will need to be saved. It looks like they will be escaping the Ash Na'vi in the forest and his mask will get damaged, he loses consciousness and falls of a cliff (sounds terrifying but at least we know Jake gives him a hug). And then leaks shows Kiri gives him ability to breathe without it.

It looks like Jake is there with the kids so this also confirms the leaks which in turn means that Quaritch is also there. Maybe he wasn't helping them escape. Maybe he was chasing them. And then Spider gets hurt.

Because now it's very clear Quaritch will ally himself with Ash Na'vi. He is wearing their paint but also his tactical gear and it looks very menacing. So all of this is for sure happening and Quaritch is all in on the fighting with Mangkwan not against them.

Although, it isn't all like that from the beginning so maybe that's later and first he gets imprisoned and the Varang tries to get into his head and all the other stuff comes later. The photo right above certainly seem like it came from the later part of the film (it might Jake as prisoner on board of Factory Ship).

He doesn't look like he has the paint on here yet when the kids are taken prisoner but then some versions of concept art of the attack have Quaritch there so who knows. Maybe he is alrady with them. Maybe it's a different attack and they teaming up for the Factory Ship attack.

Tonowari is daunted by the prospect of fighting aliens and I suppose this will be how a lot of Na'vi will think (comics showed that too). And it's even worse with humans and Ash Na'vi making an alliance but they cannot avoid this. One thing we know that's probably from the end of the film is that the Factory Ship fleet is coming and the battle cannot be avoided.

The sources with the details under the cut

This is io9 description of the trailer

Cameron wasn’t there in person, but he put the presentation in the capable hands of Neytiri herself, Zoe Saldaña. The footage began with the water tribe, the Metkayina, as characters swim through some kind of wreckage (maybe from the end of the last movie?), followed by scenes of the kids like Lo’ak, Kiri, Tsireya hanging about.

“The strength of your ancestors is here,” Tsireya says to Lo’ak as she touches his chest.

The Wind Traders show up, and all of the Metkayina are excited. It’s friendly. People are cheering, and some of the younger characters like Kiri and even Spider are riding with them. Cameron films these scenes with a real love for these people. These are basically flying pirate ships with sails made up of almost translucent material. Members of the tribe bark out orders around the ship like you’d see in an old pirate movie but the ships just keep gliding along. This is peaceful. This is beautiful. This is nice.

The ships slowly float through the mountains with some other Na’vi, like Neytiri, riding alongside on her Ikran. Spider playfully dangles his foot off the side. Again, everything is quiet and calm. But not for long. Neytiri spots something watching them from the sky and screams for Jake. It’s the Ash tribe and they have a much more menacing presence than the Na’vi people we know, thanks in large part to the bright red war paint they wear and the sparks coming off the back of their Ikrans.

The Ash tribe swoops down and attacks our heroes in a massive midair battle. Jake fires his gun. Neytiri fires her bow and arrow. But the Ash tribe shoots arrows with fire, which start to burn down the Wind tribe’s ships.

We see Jake seemingly trekking across Pandora by himself, walking by massive volcanoes and eventually arriving at what looks like the gate of the Ash tribe with his hands in the air, giving himself up. He and Neytiri are having problems with Lo’ak and tell him, “You can’t live in hate!” They hug him.

Tonowari, leader of the water tribe, says that they can’t defeat enemies that come from the stars. We then see the Ash tribe seemingly teaming up with Quaritch and the rest of the human army.

Neytiri is in the hospital and screams for her children. A raid is happening. There’s a quick shot of the eye of a Tulkun. Things end with a massive battle that’s happening on what looks like floating rocks. They seem to be in the middle of some kind of floating wreckage from a battle that’s still happening. Neytiri and the leader of the Ash tribe, who we’ve seen throughout the trailer, are fighting but Neytiri’s snarls come up against her flame thrower type weapon. “Your goddess has no dominion here,” the Ash woman says, confirming they don’t believe in Ewa. And that’s the end.

So you have the serenity of the Wind tribe, the kinetic energy of the Ash tribe and in the middle, the water people, which now includes the Sully family. We have a feeling not everyone is going to make it out alive.

Here is the Discussing Film one:

Exclusive Footage Description: CinemaCon 2025 showed audiences the first ever footage from Avatar: Fire and Ash in the form of a sizzle reel. The first footage we see is the water tribe floating on a strange jellyfish-like ship. The detail is out of this world, with the high frame rate photography looking genuinely cinema-redefying. The next scene involves an aerial attack on Jake, Neytiri, and their clan by the Ash people, who have red paint on their mouths to indicate their tribe. We then transition to more of a traditional trailer.

The Ash People are a vicious tribe, pushing the Water Tribe out of their home. One of the biggest threads is a rage growing in Neytiri, which Jake calls out in a harrowing moment. Jake hugs Spider. There’s a tense confrontation between Neytiri and the leader of the Ash Tribe. Similarly, the leader of the Ash Tribe tells Kiri that “her God has no dominion here”. Spider at one point has his mask smashed. The last thing we see is hints of a massive action sequence in the sky, with platforms surging up to towards the top of the sky. The footage is completely unreal stuff, delivering on more than expected.

The Hollywood Reporter:

Here's confirmation about Quaritch's new look and alliance with Asn Na'vi:

[mariasont]

hi 🫶🏻 i was thinking maybe you could write spencer x reader inspired by taylor's I look in people's windows? for the plot it could be something like they were really close friends and reader was obviously in love with him but then he met meave and distanced himself from her, or maybe that he blames the reader for meave's death and is avoiding her, idk, whichever you prefer!!

i love your works, you're so good at writing!!

When the Swallows Come Again - S.R

a/n: hi my lovely you just know me tooooooo well. a swiftie plot line you ask? i am at your service

no but fr thank u so so sooo much for requesting i love YOU! 🫶🏼

masterlist

pairings: spencer reid x gn!reader (im pretty sure pls correct me if i added any use of pronouns)

summary: spencer blames you for maeves death…or so you thought

warnings: angst! (happy endings, yes ik im feeling gracious), talk of death, blood, guns, usual criminal minds stuff

wc: 2.5k

The asphalt beneath your boots felt gritty, the sound muffled by the thick blanket of snow. With one hand, you tried to guard your face from the snowflakes that seemed determined to kiss your skin. They might seem pretty from inside, but out here, they were just another reminder of your inadequate clothing against the biting cold.

The first rays of the sun began to stretch across the concrete, painting long shadows in its wake. Although you could have found your way in the pitch black if needed. Most places were still closed, but you knew that a coffee shop you used to love would be open. It wasn't your top choice, mainly because of the fact that you might bump into--

Him.

You knew it was him before you even saw his face, the hairs on your arm standing at attention as you stopped dead in front of the window.

It was Spencer, unmistakable even from a distance, his distinctive curls made into a celestial crown by the cafe's soft light. Your heart stumbled, plummeting down to your shoelaces. A thousand emotions crashed around you, a vortex happening to quick to untangle. These were feeling you had buried down, far deeper than six feet, hoping they'd never resurface. But that, you realized, was just wishful thinking.

You watched from behind the glass, feeling like a stranger to the world that Spencer now inhabited--a world where you once had a seat at his table. Now, you were the outsider, the unwanted observer. The sound of his laughter, which once was a comforting sound, now seeped through the door's crack, a mocking reminder of a severed tie. Your friendship was one that had bloomed like the first flowers of spring.

But flowers wither, and seasons change.

With Spencer out of your life, a subtle death crept over you, eroding you piece by piece. It was a death characterized by the loud allegations, the quiet of words left unsaid, and a friendship that had crumbled because he blamed you for Maeve's death.

Not just blamed, he hated you.

He hated you because you had tried to save Maeve, but you just weren't quick enough, because you couldn't beat the onset of gunfire, because you went in instead of him. You knew the cost: if he went in, he wouldn't have come back out. You didn't regret that choice. He's alive and breathing, and that's worth any cost--even if it means he never spoke to you again.

But there he stood, living and breathing--just as you intended, and suddenly your body seemed to malfunction. Your feet might as well have been part of the pavement, the snowflakes assaulting your face just as Maeve's blood did that day. Your heart threatened to burst, racing with a ferocity that set your veins on fire. You were scorching alive, and it was 17 degrees. 

In the aftermath, Spencer had taken himself off the grid, locked himself in his apartment, and you didn't take it to heart because his withdrawal was all- encompassing. He was avoiding everyone. But then he came back, and it was as if you alone were invisible to him. You tried, with every fiber of your being, to bridge to gap, for him to let you be his best friend again, but your attempts were met with biting remarks and thinly veiled jabs.

It was exhausting. But he was grieving so you felt like he deserved a pass. He had been through so much, more than anyone on the team. Surely, if anyone deserved a pass, it was him. However, even the most generous pass has an expiration date, and six months of disregard made it challenging to keep validating the same worn-out ticket.

So, you submitted your transfer papers to the narcotics unit. You wanted to say a proper goodbye, but you weren't sure he'd care. So, you didn't. You waited until the office was empty, then disappeared without a trace. 

But it didn't hardly matter that you weren't physically around him because you found yourself searching for signs of him in everything you did. 

When you pulled on your socks, memories of his mismatching habit surfaced, and the way he'd cheekily taunt you for your staunch preference for matching white ones. When you went to the grocery store, you'd unintentionally wander to the aisle with the dark chocolate almonds, his favorite.

Every time a swallow flitted across your path, you were reminded of him. "Swallows return to the same place every year, but not the same partner," he had once explained.

The thought always stuck to you, like gum on the sole of your shoe, because now it was a poignant parallel to your own stupid, fractured bond. Connections were never meant to endure. You knew that now.

It was too late to reverse course when he spun around, catching you red-handed. Your mouth flapped open, a fish out of water, as you willed your feet to moved forward. The need for coffee paled in the comparison to the need to leave. But his reflexes outmatched yours, and the door swung open before you could make an escape.

He said nothing, just stared, and you came to a near-instant stop, narrowly avoiding a collision. The frosty air of your breath fogged the space between you, briefly distorting your view of him, softening his edges into the Spencer you once knew.

Now that he was within arm's reach, you could discern the finer aspects of his face. He looked good, tired, but good. He always looked good, but time had sculpted his features into something more profound. His hair had grown out, curling at the ends, and a stubble now sketched the contours of his face. 

"Hey."

Had you not been so captivated by the shape of his mouth, the faint sound would have been swallowed by the buzzing in your ears.

"Hey," you whispered, but even that was too much for your shaky voice, breaking mid-greeting and leaving you exposed before him. "I'm sorry, I had no idea you'd be here. Um, I should probably just--"

You maneuvered around him, pushing down the vomit of words rising in your throat, consciously fighting the impulse to catalog every line of his face, cognizant of the fact that it might just be the last time you'd see him.

His hand clasped your wrist, and you were suddenly you were the newest member of the BAU again, rubbing elbows with the boy genius, telling him all your secrets with the exception of one. How madly in love you were with him. Were? Are? Past tense? Present tense? You tried not to think about it.

You were frozen in time—not solely from the physical restraint but from the searing sensation of his touch, a feeling you hadn't known in ages, as if igniting your skin through your sleeve.

"Wait, please," he pleaded, the desperation is his voice anchoring you to the spot. You turned back to face him, finding your faces nearly touching. You shifted, intending to create space, but his grip on your arm didn't drop, so you didn't move. "How have you been?"

The question threw you off guard, and it filled your stomach with an irrepressible swarm of butterflies, a feeling so alive against the biting cold that stung at your nose.

Your fingertips were going numb.

"I'm okay, you?" A complete lie.

You racked your brain for the last time you felt okay. Perhaps it was before Spencer had started talking with Maeve. You didn't even know about it at first, that might have been the worst part. He was your best friend, and he had omitted such a significant detail of his life from you.

He just started to distance himself, forging a gap between the two of you that seemed to rival the expanse of the Grand Canyon. Perhaps it was an overstatement, but as the events unfolded, the comparison felt justified. 

The change began imperceptibly, almost cruelly gradual. You would have preferred a quick yank of the Band-Aid, but it was a prolonged, painful peeling. The first sign was him not jumping at the chance to be partnered on cases like he usually did. Then, it progressed to him choosing seats away from you on the jet, and finally, it escalated to him leaving the room all together when you were in it.

It was an achy feeling, an all-consuming soreness that infiltrated every inch of your being. You didn't understand, didn't know what you did wrong. It wasn't long after this you found out about Maeve.

And then, as if fate had dealt its cruelest hand, she died, and suddenly it was your fault. You became the villain in his eyes, condemned for your hesitance, and because you refused to let him die. Maybe it could be seen as selfish, but without him, you would be nothing.

Yet here you were living without him all the same.

His inspection was more thorough than you were ready for. It stirred an urge within you to shrink away, to sprint into the anonymity of the dark streets, but your feet remained rooted to the spot.

"I've been better," he admitted, eyes shining with something you couldn't quite place.

"Oh," you begam, the syllable suspended in the frigid air, but before your thoughts could coalesce into words, Spencer cut through the silence.

"Why did you leave?"

Your brows pinched together, your mouth agape as a singular heartbeat was lost--and then several more. "You can't be serious."

He looked confused. "What? No, Hotch never really told us your reasoning."

The taste of a bitter laugh lingered at the edge of your lips. "Spencer, we don't need to do this whole act, okay? We don't have to pretend that I left for any reason other than you."

"Because of me?" His hands glided upward, pausing on your shoulder, and you loathed the part of you that wanted to lean into him. "What are you talking about?"

"Are you kidding?" The words tumbled out, blinking away the tears of frustration that threatened to spill. "Spencer, I'm not stupid. I know you hate me. I know you blame me for what happened with Maeve. And I get it, you were grieving, and you had every right to be mad, and I just couldn't work there anymore."

"That's the most absurd thing I've ever heard," he cut in, his tone was sharp, yet somehow not unkind. "God, I don't hate you. I could never hate you."

"How can you stand there and say that?" you countered, your voice hurt and incredulous as you took a step away, the cold seeping into your bones and setting your teeth on edge. "You treated me like I was nothing, Spencer."

"Here," Spencer said, handing you his jacket. "You should know, prolonged exposure to cold weather can actually weaken your immune system."

"Oh," you said, slightly startled, feeling the warmth take hold in your cheeks. You rubbed your nose before pulling the jacket over your shoulders. It smelled just like him.

"I don't hate you, you know that, right?" Spencer's voice was soft, like he was whispering even though you were the only two on the street. "I'm sorry if I made you feel insignificant. You're far from it. You could never be nothing. But I was mad, and I let that get the better of me."

"But I tried, Spencer," you choked out, voice wavering, emotion thick in your throat. "I tried to save her. Maybe if I had more training, more experience... I know you wish I had let you be there instead, but I couldn't risk it, not with what I knew. And now our friendship is ruined and I--,"

"Hey, whoa, slow down," Spencer interjected, cupping your cheeks, thumbs brushing away tears you hadn't even noticed. "You think I blame you? Oh, my god, no, sweetheart. I was angry, yes, but it was because you were willing to step in front of a gun."

"You don't blame me?"

"Of course I don't," he breathed out as if he couldn't believe this is what you thought. "I'm so sorry for giving you that impression. It was never my intention."

Your emotions bubbled over into a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. "I really missed you."

Spencer's heart seemed to shatter than mend in an instant as he drew you against him. "Can I kiss you?"

Giggles spilled out through chattering teeth, punctuating the air as a wide smile graced your lips. "You want to kiss me?" 

"I want to kiss you."

The idea almost seemed to sweet to be true.

"Okay."

He kissed you, and with each snowflake that settled into your hair, Spencer drew you in closer. In a way that you had only dreamed of. The biting cold was there, but it paled in comparison to the blaze that was now ignited through your body. 

It was perfect, everything you had imagined and more--real, warm, and grounding. 

He pulled away slowly, blinking the same speed, snowflakes dusting his lashes like delicate frost.

“I know I’ve been… difficult,” he said, his voice rough, his breath wanting your frozen cheek at the same time.

You pressed a hand to his chest. “Spencer, you don’t have to explain.”

A moment passed, as if he were thinking about your offer, then his gaze found yours, piercing and profound, as if the solid ground you stood on was suddenly fragile.

“But I need to,” he said, the raw need in his voice pulling your straight back into the orbit of his words. “I was angry, yes, you almost got yourself killed. But I pushed you away because it was far easier than facing the fear that I might lose you too.”

The beats of your heart echoed loudly—thump, thump—in its bony cage as your fingers curled tightly into his shirt.

“Every time I looked at you, I saw what I could have lost, and that fucking terrified me.”

Spencer cussed, this wasn’t unusual, but the intensity behind it made you frown. His words, so honest, seemed pull you in, invading his personal space in an effort to get rid of yours.

“You’re not going to lose me.”

The sun was shining now, casting golden rays over the snow and Spencer’s face, framing him just as he was in your mind.

“Then let’s not waste anymore time.”

You love him. Present.

For a second you thought Spencer might be wrong because maybe, just maybe, swallows could return to the same place, and the same partner after all.

taglist: @hotchhner @khxna @readergf

[logansargeantsbabymom]

Limits Are For The Living

Kraven x Fem!Reader

Summary: Kraven has limits, Y/N has none

The first time I killed, I didn’t flinch. I remember the way his body crumpled—soundless, graceless. I remember the blood, thick and sweet on my tongue. But I don’t remember his name.

Names are irrelevant. Names imply humanity. I’ve long since stopped pretending I have any of that left.

Kraven still pretends. Not out loud, never with words—but in the pauses. In the hesitation before a throat is slit. In the second of eye contact he gives a man before ending him. He lets them die knowing they’re seen. I don’t. I kill like they’re already dead.

It’s what sets us apart.

We were tracking a man through the Lower East Side, and I could smell his fear four alleys away. Desperate sweat. Accelerated heartbeat. Piss-soaked jeans.

Kraven moved beside me with practiced precision. Always quiet. Always coiled. He thrives in the hunt, I’ll give him that. But when it’s over—when the screaming starts—he waits. Watches. Weighs the cost.

I do not.

We turned a corner. The target—a dealer, runner, thief, liar, pick one—bolted through a torn chain-link gate. I didn’t bother drawing my blade. I ran.

He didn’t make it past the third step of the fire escape before I was on him.

I dragged him down by the collar, metal screeching as his spine met the rusted stairs. His leg bent wrong on impact. He screamed.

“Shut up,” I said flatly.

“I didn’t mean to—!” he coughed, spitting blood. “I was just paid to deliver the crate— I didn’t know it was yours—!”

I pressed my boot to his throat. Not enough to kill. Not yet.

Kraven appeared behind me. Silent. His silhouette framed by a dying streetlamp.

“Y/N,” he said lowly, “he’s unarmed.”

“And?”

“He didn’t pull the trigger. He was a pawn.”

“So was I,” I said, tightening the pressure with my heel. “Look how I turned out.”

Kraven’s jaw flexed. I knew that look. The one where he wants to say don’t. The one where he wants to believe I can be reined in.

But I can’t. I wasn’t made with a leash.

“I don’t need a speech,” I told him. “I need a moment.”

Kraven stepped back. Not far, just enough to make it clear: This one’s mine.

The man beneath me was sobbing now. He clawed weakly at my ankle, lips quivering, voice cracking with useless pleas. “Please, I swear, I didn’t know who you were—!”

“That’s the point,” I said, crouching beside him. My voice never rose. It never had to. “You moved in our city. You touched what we claimed. You didn’t know who I was?”

I leaned closer, and he went still. “You will.”

And then I opened his throat.

No hesitation. No rage. No passion. Just precision.

It painted the bricks beside us. Warm. Viscous. Brief.

Kraven stood in the dark and didn’t say anything for a long time.

“I would’ve let him go,” he muttered eventually.

I wiped my blade clean on the man’s hoodie and rose.

“I know.”

He turned, jaw set hard. “You don’t think that matters?”

I tilted my head. “To you? Maybe.”

He walked. I followed.

Later, we stood in the warehouse. Cold. Abandoned. Ours.

Kraven poured two fingers of blood-whiskey into a glass and pushed it toward me.

“Drink,” he said.

I didn’t move.

“You think I need it?”

“I think you should remember how to feel something.”

I let the silence sit. Heavy. Quiet.

“I remember,” I said finally, taking the glass. “I just don’t care.”

Kraven studied me like he always did. Like he was trying to find the crack. He never will. There isn’t one.

“You scare the people who aren’t afraid of me,” he said. There was something between awe and warning in his voice.

“Good.”

He paced to the window. City lights flickered beyond broken panes. “I kill because it’s necessary. You kill because you like it.”

“No,” I corrected him calmly. “I kill because it’s what I am. There’s a difference.”

“You weren’t always this way.”

“You don’t know what I was.”

“I married you.”

“That doesn’t mean you knew me.”

His fist hit the windowsill hard. Wood splintered. “You think this is strength? You think being numb makes you untouchable?”

I stood. Walked toward him. Every movement smooth. Deliberate.

“No,” I said. “I think it makes me honest.”

He looked at me then—really looked. Like maybe he finally understood. I don’t hunt because I want revenge. I don’t kill because I’m angry. I do it because it’s clean. Because in those moments, I am more than alive. I’m real.

Kraven hunts to control the beast inside him. I hunt because I am the beast. There is no war inside me. No duality. No guilt. Only clarity.

And if that scares him, good. It should.

Because the only reason he’s still breathing… is that I let him.

[athena-gundampla]

Weathering Tutorial

Thought I'd write up a quick tutorial to how I approach weathering for my gunpla kits. Typically, I'll do a quick gunmetal drybrush of the grey parts of a kit before I start building, as well as correcting any colour inaccuracies. This tutorial covers some of the things I do to a kit after it's built, to give it a more "lived in" look.

For the best effect, I apply stickers and other decals before weathering, as well as graffiti. This way, weathering cuts through or over these designs, helping tie them to the kit a little better.

The example kit here is the HGUC 1/144 Nemo, which I'll upload a review for soon that should be linked in the future.

Bullet Holes & Impact Points

I typically use a hobby knife, pressing it into the surface of the plastic to make a small mark where I want the bullet impact point to be.

Usually with a blade that has a damaged or flatter tip, I'll spin the blade around, just like you'd use a hand drill (although I don't have any of those, so this suffices). Holding the blade at a slight angle will make the hole wider and a little more bowl shaped, just like a dent from an impact point.

Using a round metal file, I widen some of the holes and bevel the edges. Apart from making the hole a little more visible, this also creates a bit of a raised edge.

A starburst pattern can be created by cutting a few shallow lines with a knife traveling out from the centre of the hole, creating the implication of shrapnel from a shattered round.

Armour Chips and Edge Damage

Using a round file, I carve a rounded indent into the edge of the armour section. Depending on the angle you use and the position of the indent, this can come across as a dent or a chip of armour blown off. You can see what this looks like in the second image.

After this, I'll use a hobby knife or an angled file to cut deep grooves heading outward from the dent, as well as on their own to create cuts and chips along more acute angled on armour pieces (think the 90 degree angle on a square leg piece). As additions to the rounded damage, it can look like shrapnel damage from an intial angled impact. On their own, more angled chips give high points on armour a more worn effect.

Paint Damage (Sponge Chipping)

This utilizes a technique I learned from @radiofreemagica a few months ago. Give their blog some love!

Sponge chipping involves lightly applying paint to areas you want to appear chipped or worn using a sponge. The effect is that paint is applied as a series of small spots, which if done right should look as though the pain has fallen off in large flakes. The sponges here are simply offcuts of an old kitchen sponge.

For my first pass, I use a slightly heavier application of black paint.

Dab a little of the excess off on a piece of paper - you want the impression of the sponge to come across clearly for the small little dots. If there's too much paint on the sponge, it'll blot onto the model and obscure detail.

Apply the paint across raised edges, especially corners, where the mech or vehicle is likely to experience the most friction. Try to be measured on application - not every raised edge needs to have chipped paint!

For the second pass, a gunmetal is appropriate. Use an even smaller amount of paint.

Dab the gunmetal over the top of your black. This will make it look as though underneath the black "primer" is bare metal.

Drybrushing

This step helps to augment the wear and tear established with your sponge chipping. Using a lighter metallic, you can emphasise the idea that under the bright colours of the model kit is tough metal plating.

My go-to drybrush for this is Citadel's Necron Compound, which is a drybrush-ready silver. Usually I prefer cheaper and more dilute Vallejo Air, as it reduces the risk of drying out or clogging in the bottle, and doesn't need to be thinned. However, Citadel's technical paints are really well made, and worth the extra cost.

For a drybrush style paint, you only need to wipe a little excess of your drybrushing brush. For a typical silver acryllic, you'll need to keep wiping until only a little silver comes off the brush, enough to only stick on the high points. You can use a specific drybrushing brush for this, or just any old brush that you don't care about abusing a little.

Only lightly tickle the raised edges with silver. A little goes a long way - you just want the edges of the armour segments to catch the light and give the implication of worn metal.

Painting the Damage

Coming back to the damage we carved with files and knives, it's time to give the impression of metal underneath them, rather than plastic.

For this, I'll use a plain silver acryllic, something around a flat aluminium rather than chrome or purer silver.

With a small brush, apply the silver paint into the chips, cracks, and bullet holes you made earlier. Make sure to work it right into the thinner recesses, and wipe away any excess with a cotton bud.

Next, to bring down the tone and to add depth to the damage, I use a black wash. You can buy premade acryllic washes, or even use something like liquid panel liner, but I prefer to just make my own.

Make sure your brush is very wet, picking up water with your brush.

Mix with the paint until it is very thin. You should be able to see through it.

Apply it into the bullet holes and cracks, letting it flow into the deepest sections just like with a panel liner, and wiping away the excess.

This should make the damage look a little deeper, and give it a bright edge from the silver.

Finishing Up

Make sure to give your kit a protective topcoat, so that all your paint doesn't get chipped off when posing or moving your kit! I use a matte finish pray on sealer. Right now I'm using the Mod Podge clear acryllic, but in the past I've also used bog-standard Rust-O-Leum Matte Clear varnish without any issues. It's important to cover or mask off any clear or gloss parts when doing a matte finish, as these will ruin the parts and it's very difficult to clean them once the topcoat is set.

And that should be everything! Now your kit should look a lot more metallic and worn. Depending on how much you add, you can make your kit look anywhere from it's first fray to a beaten and dilapidated mech abandoned in the dirt. Let me know how you go with this tutorial!~

[exiledandwanderingfox]

The first thing Feyre fans always go to is about how Feyre saved her family by going off to the woods to hunt. Or just in general saved her family….which is just not true.

1) Feyre only hunts. Correct me if I’m wrong, but she’s not going off looking for vegetables or fruit, nor does she ever get Elain seeds that would do either. Only eating a carnivore diet leads to serious health implications from organ failure to brain fog, to much more serious occurrences. Sure, Feyre got food to her family, but at what actual cost?

2) Feyre isolates herself and tries to isolate her sisters from the community of the village because she’s upset at the Archeron wealth downfall, and refuses to associate with most of the villagers. Community is the most important thing in a situation like that, and while Nesta and Elain are trying to build up that communication and trust with the villagers, Feyre is actively tearing it down.

3) Feyre likes to be in control. She needs to control what her family eats, who they see, and especially the finances. She buys paint for herself and flowers for Elain. She makes sure that her sisters can’t get new boots or cloaks when there’s holes in them and they’re falling apart. Feyre has to be in control. That isn’t saving her family, that’s holding them hostage.

In conclusion, I still hate Feyre and I always will.

[frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe]

new hs history teacher(/basketball coach ofc) steve who is being shown around the school by gym teacher chrissy.

she takes him around the building to show him where the teacher's lounge is, the cafeteria, what bathrooms to avoid at all costs, and to where her office is if he ever needs anything.

"If I'm not here, I'm probably in Robbie's class over in the language department."

"Robbie?"

"Robin, my partner. She officially teaches ASL, but she likes to join in on the others' lessons whenever she has downtime."

Finally, once they've covered the whole length of the school, she brings him to his room. "So this is you, and right next door is Eddie, our Criminalistics teacher." gesturing to the still-dark window of the door directly across from his in the alcove. 

There's polaroids covering nearly every inch of the outside of the door, pictures of what he can only assume are students with the same dark-haired man.

"Criminalistics?"

"It's a science elective," she explains, "It focuses on the basics of forensic science!"

"Wow that’s…really?"

She nods enthusiastically, "It’s super interesting,” she nods, moving to unlock the empty what-will-be history classroom. “Eddie’s here on even days, and in the music room on odd days for the guitar elective classes."

"Anything I should know about my wall neighbor?" he asks as she pushes the door open.

It looks like she's going to say no, but something flickers across her face and she winces minutely.

"Oh god, what is it?"

She looks at him sheepishly, "How do you feel about metal music?"

--

Since his tour in mid June, Steve's completely overhauled his classroom. 

The only room available to him was the one down here in the science hall, but he made do, plastering removable whiteboard contact paper to the tops of the lab tables and a little reminder at each spot for the students about his less-than-stellar hearing, to make sure they speak up when answering a question from the back of the room.

And ever since he got his room, he'd been waiting for the day he finally meets his neighbor.

He met Chrissy's Robbie the same day he had the tour, and they clicked instantly (No seriously, how did he ever function before Robin?). Chrissy had made the comment about them being platonic soulmates one night in August when they'd gone out for one too many drinks, and it's stuck ever since.

Speaking of: "What are you still doing here, dingus? It's almost five."

"Yeah, I know, I know," he says, waving her off.

Robin comes in from the hall and plops herself down on one of the table tops instead of helping him hang a map behind his desk. "You're still adding stuff to your walls?"

"Well, I haven't been here for a couple years already, Bobs," he grits out as he stretches up on his toes to hang the far corner of his map. Finally, the eyelet hooks over the many-times-painted-over hook embedded in the concrete wall. "So yes."

"Well you can finish up tomorrow, we," she emphasizes the word by dramatically waving the same sign with her hand between them, "Have a burger date to get to." 

--

The following day, the day before the school year officially starts, Steve arrives early to his classroom, only to find his neighbor's classroom lit up as well.

The be-polaroided door is propped open all the way, the sound of heavy drums and guitar streaming out the door along with the faint smell of moth balls and a spicy incense.

His own room forgotten, Steve steps through Mr. Munson's doorway.

Eddie is standing behind his desk at the front of the room, but hunched over it scribbling onto something.

When Steve's shoe squeaks against the tile floor, Eddie says "Hey, what do you think, identifying skeletal remains, or blood spatter first?" without looking up at him.

"Skeletons, of course." Eddie's head snaps up to look at him. His huge dark eyes are much more striking in person than in a photo. "Much more interesting, yeah?"

Eddie blinks at him. "You're not Chrissy."

"You're correct."

Eddie blinks again, "Who're you?"

"Oh, sorry, hi. I'm Steve. I'm your new neighbor." he gives the other man an awkward wave when he still doesn't move. "Sorry, should I--" he says, gesturing over his shoulder with a thumb.

"No!" Eddie interrupts, standing straight and hurrying out from around his desk. 

He extends a hand and jogs lightly up to Steve. His pen is still laced into his fingers, the end of it chewed flat. "Oh shit, sorry, sorry," he tucks the pen behind his ear, "I'm Eddie. Munson."

"I know," Steve smirks, taking Eddie's hand. "I've been waiting to meet you."

"Oh have you?" he smirks.

"Yeah, Chrissy told me you're her best friend and I wanted your advice on maybe asking her out."

Eddie's face hardens immediately, the warm milk chocolate of his eyes curing into a solid dark, the easy smirk morphing into a cringe as he looks Steve up and down.

He opens his mouth to say something particularly scathing, Steve's sure, but he cuts him off before he can. "I'm kidding, man, I know she's with Robin."

His expression softens just a bit.

"Plus, she's not really my type anyway, even if I were hers."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, I'm more into brunettes." Steve winks, finally releasing Eddie's hand. "I still have a bit more to get done, but I'll check in with you later?"

"Oh--yeah, for sure, I'll be here." Eddie stammers out, his cheeks tinged pink.

Steve fist pumps in his head as he heads to his door, You still got it, Harrington.

[cutiibee]

An Armoured Ghost

A mandolorian!Simon Riley x fem!reader fic

Chapter One - Prey

mdni 18+

cw: nothing so far!

Dark was always his cover. He was fond of it. Most of his clothes were black, his worn but sturdy boots, even his armor was a black chrome. It had cost far too many credits to get that done, not that he cared.

He had plenty of credits to spend as he pleased from the bounties he collected routinely. It was something he knew by heart, the order of it. Collect the bounties. Enter the location of the first one. Find them, kill them or not depending on the bounty, freeze them, set off for the next location.

It was easy for him to do. Simple. Dangerous, sure, but that made it fun.

He didn’t have much of a reason to linger around, anyways. His family was long gone, he didn’t exactly have friends.

He carried on with his routine day after day. Eventually the name on the bounty puck was yours. He punched in your last known location.

You were hiding out on a crowded planet full of tourist traps and peep shows he had zero interest in. Burly shoulders parted the crowd, bathed in red neon lights. His helmet-the outside painted to look like a skull, to scare off children and weaker souls-told him he was close.

You were in a pub, drunk off your ass when he found you. The room went quiet when he stepped inside, a rusty bell above the door clinging. You were laughing at something the man beside you had said.

When your alcohol-riddled brain finally registered the quiet of the room, your heady turned slowly to face him.

And fuck him, but you were gorgeous. He had to correct the thought the moment it hit him. You were a bounty, nothing else. His prey.

You didn’t put up a fight when you saw his hulking, armor-clad figure leaning over to take the man’s flask. He slid it into a concealed pocket somewhere on his side. Then he reached for you and you went willingly, letting him guide you out of the pub.

He walked you outside, and then scooped you up, and his own feet were off the ground a second later. You let out this scream, one that had him biting back a chuckle. Guess he forgot to mention the jetpack.

A few moments of navigation later, he dropped in front of his ship. Parked in some shabby but not too sketchy bay. There were two or three others there, all quiet. He opened the door, lugging you up the metal ramp, that shut the moment you were both fully inside.

“Gotta put you in the cryo, yeah?” His voice came out rich and gritty through the helmet modulator.

You were drunk and about to die. You couldn’t help but soak the gusset of your panties. Because, Maker, he was so scary. And he was going to freeze you in a cryogenic chamber. You’d be aware, but unmoving. Totally frozen.

“But m’too drunk.” you said, trying to convince the terrifying man in front of you to let you stay unfrozen for just a little longer.

“That so?” The baritone of his voice is beautiful. Loud, commanding, just a tad bit teasing. You can’t even see his eyes, but it’s like you feel them trace up and down your body.

You nodded like one of those bobblehead toys in the shops back outside the small ship. “So drunk. So, so dr-” you cut off in a hiccup, which seems to make him believe you, because his gloved hand wraps around your bicep and tugs you towards a ladder.

He pokes the small of your back. “Climb. Don’t touch nothin’, yeah?”

You obey, clumsily making your way up the ladder with heavy limbs that won’t work quite right. The ladder leads into a tidy cockpit, with two chairs and a wide window offering a panoramic view of the parking bay the ship is still inside of.

He lets you amble over to the controls, looking at all the buttons curiously.

“Ever flown a ship, birdie?” He asks from where he stands by the top of the ladder. He’s surprisingly quiet for someone so big. You shake your head, then turn it to look at him.

“Y’could. If you have the reaction time for it.” He shrugged his wide shoulders before coming over to you and settling down in the captain’s chair beside you.

You think that maybe you’d like that. Of course, now you’re out of time to learn.

“Okay, I’m ready now.” You think it surprises him, the way his head turns slowly towards you, the visor of his helmet reflecting back your own face at a silly angle, widened.

“Don’t mind if you stay the night, dovie.” He said before facing forward again and settling his burly hands onto the control panel. Things beeped and blinked to life. You scrambled into the copilot seat beside him, so close your thigh brushed against his own any time he shifted the seat in your angle.

“Tomorrow morning,” he said. You look over at him. Tomorrow morning you went into the tank.

[one-flower-one-sword]

"You came from a renowned school, an orthodox sect that never traversed the deviant path. Growing up in that sect, you were always told that ascending was the ultimate thing to strive for," Jun Wu continued. "It is very difficult to give up that sort of goal. Falling in with the Ghost Realm was an unfortunate circumstance, an act born of helplessness. Of course you cannot say you are satisfied with your position in the Ghost Realm. It was never what you wanted in the first place."

Yin Yu didn't have enough confidence to deny it. He said weakly, "Chengzhu has shown me grace. He saved me -"

"I know," Jun Wu said. "He even helped you pacify and send off Jian Yu's vengeful spirit after he died during your banishment, am I correct?"

"...Yes," Yin Yu confirmed. "So whether or not I am satisfied with my current position, it's all -"

"That is dissatisfaction," Jun Wu noted. "You are bound by his grace and have nowhere else to go. You are in denial." Yin Yu hung his head and didn't reply.

Vol 7, page 144-145

One of my favorite relationships throughout the novel, even though we get so little information about it, is Yin Yu and Hua Cheng's. Even the above tidbit is mired by the way Jun Wu is trying to manipulate Yin Yu's emotions and how Yin Yu at times responds genuinely and at others plays along to try and find a way to escape.

Once I had finished the novel, I was left wondering why there are so many fandom jokes about Yin Yu being exploited by Hua Cheng when the text seemed to paint a much different picture of what Yin Yu's life and work environment as a god was like versus as the highest ranking ghost city officer. So in this meta I try to examine and compare the two as well as try to draw conclusions about how Yin Yu felt about it all and why.

First of, I think that Yin Yu's longing to return to becoming a god is genuine, since this is what he says after he stops playing along with Jun Wu's manipulation because he's by then gotten enough spiritual energy to attack him:

"I do want to return to the heavens, I do want to be ranked in the top ten!" Yin Yu continued. "But it's completely meaningless if I don't do it on my own! I'm unlucky, I accept that! Admitting that I can't compare isn't that hard!" Vol 7 page 152

Which is interesting, considering this is what he felt like when he was still a god in heaven while Quan Yizhen hadn't yet ascended:

A good while later, [Quan Yizhen] said bluntly, "I don't like it here."

Yin Yu said nothing.

"They think I'm annoying, but I think they're even more annoying," Quan Yizhen continued. "Before, I could train at least sixteen hours a day. Now half the time is taken up by talking and listening to nonsense, by greeting and visiting people. There are people who yell at me and hit me for no good reason, without apologizing, and I can't even fight back. This isn't heaven. I don't like it here."

Yin Yu sighed. "I don't like it here either."

"Then let's go back," Quan Yizhen said.

But Yin Yu only shook his head, "Even though I don't like it here, I want to stay."

Quan Yizhen couldn't understand. "Why do want to stay if you don't like it here?"

Yin Yu was stumped, and chuckled in spite of himself. He didn't know what to say, unable to explain it to him. How could he convey to Quan Yizhen that reaching the Heavenly Capital was the dream of so many people who sought the path of cultivation, the ultimate end goal? Or just how difficult it was for someone his age to achieve ascension?

Vol 5, page 271-272

Yin Yu essentially seemed to be struggling with sunk cost fallacy, where he put his everything into ascending to heaven and so wants to stay there even though it's making him increasingly unhappy. It's interesting that Jun Wu accuses him of being in denial about his unhappiness in the Ghost Realm, when Yin Yu in the past seemed to be in denial about his unhappiness in heaven. Especially since this is what he was being treated like as soon as his power and influence were in decline:

Yin Yu and Jian Yu were seated next to the "Earth Master." Their assigned seats were considered the edge of the banquet. Yin Yu wasn't eating or talking to anyone. [...]

At the other end of the banquet, there was already a large crowd of heavenly officials fighting to greet Quan Yizhen. The surrounding crowd had completely blocked the person at the center from sight. It appeared that this was soon after Quan Yizhen ascended and established his own palace. He was at the height of his popularity in heaven, in contrast to how he was disliked by most of the present court. Although the two were both Martial Gods of the West, he was significantly more prominent than Yin Yu. The attendees all swarmed over, leaving the table where Yin Yu sat quiet and empty.

Vol 5, page 273-275

I've talked about this in my Yin Yu & Quan Yizhen meta as well, how Yin Yu tries to get by in heaven by conforming and submitting to the elitist power structures it's based on:

Quan Yizhen kept going. "They cussed at me first. I don't even know them. They said I was a low-ranking heavenly official and yelled at me for no reason, then they laughed at me and told me to scram and not to block their way [...]" "Are low-ranking heavenly officials below other people?" Quan Yizhen asked.

"No," Yin Yu replied. Was that true? It was obvious he didn't believe his own words, and Quan Yizhen noticed.

Vol 5, page 271

and how it starts to chip away at the kindness and the moral backbone he showed while still in his sect:

"Shidi, the things you're all saying aren't right." The crowd was taken aback. "I'm going to say something unpleasant," Yin Yu continued. "No matter what path we cultivate, talent truly is an incredible thing. And he is not only talented, he is willing to work hard. If you really think Shifu is playing favorites, then let's work harder to keep up with him - maybe even overtake him. And then things like training halls and supplements will naturally be open to everyone. Rather than wasting time being angry at him, your priority should be training harder. Am I right?" [...]

"You really don't need to mind them. You didn't do anything wrong. It's fine like this." Anyone with clear eyes could see that the other disciples couldn't stand Quan Yizhen. They found fault everywhere, and it wasn't because of his big appetite, or because he wasn't a morning person, or because he was inconsiderate and a poor teammate who only cared about showing off. At the end of the day, what they really couldn't stand was this: he was the last to enter the school, but he received the most. Quan Yizhen nodded. "I think so too." Yin Yu patted his shoulder. "Go train! That's what's most important. Don't think about anything unnecessary." [...]

After watching the two scenarios, Xie Lian praised Yin Yu. "San Lang, that subordinate of yours really is a rare character. What a good heart."

Vol 5, page 262 + 264

Everything Yin Yu and Quan Yizhen already struggled with in their sect - the jealousy, the bullying, the competition for resources - is even worse in heaven, which actively encourages the endless competition for devotees and subordinates as well as the exploitation and mistreatment of those of "lower rank". No matter how hard Yin Yu tries to conform to these structures, they steadily wear away at both the way others see him and also how he sees himself:

After closing the gates, Yin Yu's voice grew louder. "Don't say any more! I don't want to hear it! It's very normal for an ascended heavenly official to establish a palace, so he didn't do anything wrong. Since you get irritated just talking about him, why must you constantly bring him up?" "Please don't think that I'm speaking out of turn, but someone must remind you. Yin Yu, the west is only so big, and there are only so many devotees. He's already taken so much. That wolf yao kill should've been yours, but he stole it! Look at the state of you now - your domain's shrinking smaller and smaller. How much do you have left? Can you maintain your standing if this keeps up?" "How is what he's done theft? It's not like he's forcing anyone to worship him at knifepoint - everyone's willing. Besides, that wolf yao..." Yin Yu sighed and said frankly, "I couldn't have defeated it. It was useless praying to me, so of course they went to him." "I just... I'm worried that if this fight continues, he'll win and leave us with nothing," Jian Yu said bitterly. "Fuck, even those lower-ranking officials only care about their own advancement - each one of them coming up with empty excuses to quit and slipping away to serve under other heavenly officials. What a bunch of no-good asshats!" Yin Yu sighed again and sat down on a prayer cushion. "What fight are you talking about...? Why care for such things? Those who want to leave will always leave in the end, and those who want to stay will naturally remain. I didn't ascend to fight for power with anyone, nor squabble over domains, nor quarrel, so why can't you let this go?" Vol 5, page 277

This is a stark contrast not only to the kind of standing he had while he was still in his sect:

Yin Yu pushed them away, urging them to leave. He sighed. "You said yourself that he's insane, so why bother with him?" It was easy to see that Yin Yu's words held weight with his peers at this point in his life. Although the crowd was still upset, they left as told. Vol 5, page 257

But especially to the kind of authority and respect that his position in Ghost City offers him:

Suddenly, there was a commotion in the ghost crowd. They immediately parted, forming a path, as if someone of importance had arrived. Xie Lian came to his senses and saw a tall, black-clad figure walking straight toward him through the path created by the mob. That person yelled, "Settle down. Let him go!" The black-clad figure, like most of the ghosts on the street, wore a mask. It was a funny mask, with a face that was contorted as if it was smiling woefully. The mob muttered under their breath, "It's the Waning Moon Officer!", and they released their hold on Xie Lian at last. It seemed this black-clad figure was someone significant in Ghost City. Vol 2, page 99

It's also worth mentioning at this point that I think people forget that Yin Yu does not always necessarily work alone and has to do everything by himself but that he has his own subordinates:

After taking a moment to contact his subordinates in Ghost City, Yin Yu meticulously reported the general directions of each sighting.

Vol 7, page 48

Another very important thing to take away from the argument between Jian Yu and Yin Yu is that while still a god in the heavens, Yin Yu had no confidence that he'd be able to fight a wolf yao, yet in the amnesiac extra, he shows no signs of hesitancy or fear when Hua Cheng orders him to go after the monster that stole Xie Lian's memories:

He was still trying to process what he'd learned when he heard San Lang say, "I need to attend to him right now and can't leave. Catch that monster before tomorrow night and bring it to me." "Yes, sir. Shall I leave it one last breath?" the man in the ghost mask asked quietly. San Lang put down his brush and glanced at what he'd written, which he then crumbled up and tossed away, apparently unsatisfied. "Leave it a few. Make it spit out what it swallowed, then crush its worthless head to dust. Make it slow and painful." His tone and expression were both quite frightening, yet Xie Lian didn't find him repulsive or alarming. The man in the ghost mask acknowledged San Lang’s order and was about to take his leave, so Xie Lian quickly dodged away and hid. Vol 8, page 226-227

Which leads me to another important point - the amount of trust Hua Cheng shows Yin Yu by the kind of missions he sends him on. If he didn't have a high opinion of Yin Yu's abilities, he would never send him after something like a monster that had eaten Xie Lian's memories, given how incredibly important Xie Lian's wellbeing is to Hua Cheng. There's many other examples too - like how Hua Cheng trusted Yin Yu to help with tricking Shi Qingxuan and Xie Lian into saving "Ming Yi", or how he entrusted the Earth Master Shovel to him. But Hua Cheng also does not ask the impossible of him - when they're all trapped in heaven and Yin Yu started to dig tunnels with the Earth Master Shovel to try and free Xie Lian and the others so they could recover and become strong enough to escape, Hua Cheng cautions them against it because he correctly deduces that "you'll be seeking your own deaths if you try to break out under Jun Wu's watch." (Vol 7, page 130) Even though Yin Yu is with Xie Lian, Hua Cheng doesn't expect him to get Xie Lian out on his own, because he knows how powerful and ruthless Jun Wu is.

For extra emphasis, let's compare Hua Cheng’s regard for Yin Yu and his abilities to the way Jun Wu never even deemed to speak to Yin Yu while he was a god because he was so very much "beneath" him:

"My dear Yin Yu, I do not think I have ever chatted with you like this before. Isn't that right?"

"I guess not..." Yin Yu replied cautiously.

Even back when he was the martial god who ruled the west, his base of believers wasn't strong, his merits were few, and his rank wasn't impressive. He wasn't the lowest ranked of the heavenly officials in the Upper Court, but he was still below average, so he'd had almost no opportunities to interact with the Heavenly Emperor - the highest of the high.

Vol 7, page 142-143

Keeping all of that in mind, it's very interesting that Jun Wu tries to tempt Yin Yu to his side by offering him the position of his right-hand man:

Finally, Yin Yu asked, "In the Upper Court, I... What... would my position be?"

"Ling Wen will be my left hand, and you shall be my right," Jun Wu said. "There will be none above you besides me."

Vol 7, page 149

When that really is a position Yin Yu already holds - he's Hua Cheng's right-hand man. Now, one could argue that Yin Yu does have less power and prestige in the position of a ghost realm officer than he would have as a god - there's no believers worshipping him - but I think the point is that he doesn't answer to anyone but Hua Cheng, that there's no one else competing with him for that position, no one else among his subordinates that Hua Cheng puts this much trust in, and that there's no one else besides Hua Cheng himself who is demonstrated to hold so much authority and respect in Ghost City. And with all of the above, it's really important to keep in mind that Ghost City is the one single autonomous place in all the three realms and that its Chengzhu is the one single being whose power and influence is rivaled only by the Heavenly Emperor himself.

And said Heavenly Emperor damn well knows Yin Yu is Hua Cheng's right-hand man, which is I believe a big part of the reason he tries to flip Yin Yu by dangling this exact position in front of him. As I've talked about before in other posts, Jun Wu hates Hua Cheng deeply for various reasons. There's the whole thing where Hua Cheng is the unmistakable proof of a believer that never leaves their god, the very thing Jun Wu felt entitled to but didn't receive. But in this case I think him wanting to tempt Yin Yu away from Hua Cheng's side is about how bitter and salty Jun Wu feels about the fact that Hua Cheng holds more sway over all three realms than he does - evidenced by the way Hua Cheng doesn't just have followers in the Ghost Realm but the Human Realm as well, and even the gods, while they fear him, also can't help but admire him and strike deals with him in secret (Vol 1, page 157-160). That Yin Yu, a banished god, would (just like Xie Lian) rather be loyal to Hua Cheng than Jun Wu - that must have angered him a lot because it's something he'd take quite personally.

This is, I think, also the root of why Yin Yu has so much trouble seeing his position in the Ghost Realm for what it really is and why he still longs to be a god despite how unhappy he was in the heavens and how badly he was treated there - he can't see past the prejudices about the Ghost Realm in general and Ghost City in particular that he has internalized. Prejudices that Jun Wu actively weaponizes every time he speaks to Yin Yu, by repeatedly insinuating that being a ghost city officer is a shameful thing to be:

"Surely you do not actually like being a mere pawn in the Ghost Realm?" [...] "Falling in with the Ghost Realm was an unfortunate circumstance, an act borne of helplessness." [...] "You are bound by his grace and have nowhere else to go." [...]

Vol 7, page 144

Which makes it all the more satisfying when Yin Yu tricks Jun Wu (or attempts to, at least) and ultimately rejects both his offer and his authority, and also calls Jun Wu out on the way he tried to manipulate him:

"My Lord... My... No, not My Lord! You! Why must you keep reminding me of that?! Why do you speak like you actually understand me?!"

Vol 7, page 151

Jun Wu is deeply enraged by his defiance and rejection - in general, but also because it reminds him of Xie Lian's defiance against him:

Jun Wu turned around with a casual sweep of his hand. "Exhilarating. You and Xianle must get along well."

Vol 7, page 152

This brings me to my final point - which is that choosing kindness and righteousness even in the face of criticism and rejection, of personal loss and suffering, is what Jun Wu hates the most, and what ties Xie Lian and Hua Cheng, Quan Yizhen and Yin Yu, and Yin Yu and Hua Cheng together. Hua Cheng was drawn to Xie Lian because Xie Lian chose to treat him kindly when everyone else abused and rejected Hua Cheng and pressured Xie Lian to do the same. Similiar things can be said for Quan Yizhen and Yin Yu, since Yin Yu was the one to ask his sect's shifu to take Quan Yizhen in when he came across him as a seemingly abandoned child, and who repeatedly defended Quan Yizhen from the other sect members' judgement and bullying, even though this earned Yin Yu their ire as well. Yin Yu, too, values kindness very highly:

Yin Yu sobbed. "If I wasn't destined to be perfect, I at least wanted to be perfectly kind. But... I couldn't even manage that." (Vol 7, page 156)

Therefore, though we get very little information on their first meeting, I think kindness is also what drew Yin Yu to Hua Cheng, what made him stay loyal to him even when tempted/threatened by Jun Wu, and what made him go right back to working for him after the events of the main story. Because while we get only this one mention, I think a great deal can be gleaned from it:

"Chengzhu has shown me grace. He saved me - "

"I know" Jun Wu said. "He even helped you pacify and send off Jian Yu's vengeful spirit when he died during your banishment, am I correct?"

Vol 7, page 144

It's not just he helped me, it's he saved me. And not only that, Hua Cheng, in a sense, saved Jian Yu as well by helping him move on, which I would assume was simply because Yin Yu wished for his friend to let go of his resentment and not become stuck as a vengeful spirit. What I think is really important to keep in mind here is that not only was Hua Cheng under no obligation to save Yin Yu, he had, objectively speaking, nothing to gain from it. He Xuan was already in the heavens by then and giving Hua Cheng intel. and Hua Cheng didn't show off that he had a banished god working for him either - he let Yin Yi wear a mask, and for years, no one (except apparently Jun Wu) knew where Yin Yu was or what had happened to him, evidenced by the way Quan Yizhen kept looking and kept asking about him to no avail (Vol 5 page 235).

We don't really get Hua Cheng's side of the story but I think the fact that he doesn't speak about it speaks for itself - aside from keeping things close to his chest in general, he tends to not talk about the things he does out of kindness and/or his own sense of justice. We see this for example when Xie Lian only finds out why the group of cultivators is after Hua Cheng when he overhears them saying that Hua Cheng chose to shelter both the pig spirit and the prostitute ghost who had chosen to take revenge on humans who had used their positions of power to hurt others (Vol 5 page 28-29).

This is therefore more speculation than analysis, but I can imagine that this whole scenario - a god with a good heart who gets abandoned by the heavens with only a vengeful spirit by his side - even though the exact circumstances that led to it differed, might have held enough similarities to what Hua Cheng personally witnessed of Xie Lian's banishment that it would bring out that same urge to help and protect in Hua Cheng. The fact that Yin Yu says Hua Cheng saved him really can't be overstated in my opinion, considering that Hua Cheng, understandably, has usually nothing but feelings of either indifference or hatred for all of the gods aside from Xie Lian and the Rain Master.

To sum up - the power structures in heaven encourage workplace harassment, bullying, and endless competition for resources and support, and this causes Yin Yu not only increased stress, isolation, and unhappiness, but also puts a strain on his inherent kindness and righteousness as he starts to give in under the pressure to conform. By contrast, his position in Ghost City is dependant on nothing but his loyalty to Hua Cheng, on Yin Yu's own choice to stay with him, and offers him an unprecedented amount of respect and trust. It is heaven, really, that is repeatedly shown to mistreat and exploit its officials, especially those of lower rank, not Hua Cheng.

[thewistlingbadger]

In a way, I've been really stumped when it comes to Silco and season two. Because I've always liked Silco, but my affinity for him skyrocketed with season two. I went from Casual Silco Enjoyer to Silco's Defense Attorney in the span of a month, and I couldn't place why. Until now.

Season one paints Silco as a violent extremist who's objectively a bad person. Season one accomplished this by having an array of grounded characters and by having none of the characters give their full support to Silco. Majority of the cast is against Silco in a way or has no perception of him. Sevika and Jinx, Silco's only allies, only extend their loyalty so far. Jinx doesn't give a shit about his cause at all and only participates because she likes to feel useful. Sevika's loyalty to Silco is only temporary, since her true loyalty lies with Zaun and not Silco. We don't see anyone in season 1 support Silco's actions or beliefs, and based off what we actually see in season one, the audience comes to the conclusion that Silco is being too offensive for what the situation requires. We've seen harm topside is causing, but is it really bad enough to go to the lengths Silco goes to? Most people think no, and so the drugs, the violence, the overall unsympathetic attitude of Silco is off-putting. Then of course, there's Vander, who the audience got attached to and loved. Vander and Silco are total opposites so if someone really likes Vander, it's likely they'll resent Silco. So based off season 1 alone, it's clearly easy to dislike Silco.

But season two does something totally unexpected. In my opinion, season two proves that Silco was actually right. He was right to do things the way he did and to have the beliefs he had. Season two makes the oppression of Zaun extremely transparent. We truly see just how hateful Piltover is and their full potential to exercise that hate at the cost of everyone in the Undercity. And we see that Piltover behaves in such a cruel way AFTER silco is gone. AFTER zaun has no leaders. AFTER zaun has no shimmer. AFTER zaun displays no violence. Caitlyn got rid of shimmer and neutralized the chem barons. None of the potential threats of zaun that Piltover was worried about last season exist anymore, and yet Piltover was still using excessive force with the undercity. If Piltover is going to behave this way when Zaun is helpless and at their mercy, then why SHOULDN'T zaun be resorting to radicalism? Why SHOULDN'T they be resorting to the most extreme of efforts? This proves that Silco was correct to use fear as a tool against piltover. Silco was right to resort to terrible deeds at the expense of his own people, because had he not, those same people would have STILL SUFFERED from Piltover's abuse! And you could argue that they did suffer more without Silco than with him.

[safination]

For Your Heart

The End

|Masterlist|

|Part 1: The Beginning| |Part 2: The Middle | |Part 4: The New Beginning[Coming Soon!]|

Pairings: Alastor x wife!Reader. Tags/ Warning: SFW. fem!Reader, AFAB, Established Relationship, Human! Alastor, Human! Reader, tooth-rooting fluff, Husband! Alastor, Angst Harana – a traditional form of courtship done during the night where men will go to someone’s window with an instrument, usually a guitar, along with some of his friends to sing. TLDR: Sometimes all you need is a guitar and a song to catch hearts…and well, Alastor has a guitar and a voice perfect for singing. The beginning, the middle, the end, and the new beginning with a guitar and a song (feat. Ben&Ben)

I did not forget about this, no matter what anyone says. Part 3 of our delulu Harana series. Also, this happens to be a song that's in English. So non-Filipinos can enjoy and understand the lyrics. And you guys should go try it because Ben&Ben is so goated. This can be read as a stand-alone.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ

Monster.

Devil.

Murderer.

“This is a bit too cruel—Isn’t it love?”

Paint drips, and it drips, and it drips, and it drips. Each word embedded with the grief of the people. Each word embedded with the grief of a mother, a father, a daughter, a son, a friend. It trickles down and down and down the smooth, stone slab, and straight into the grief of a widow.

“Someone must really hate you to buy paint,” you say to a love that can no longer respond. “One can cost more than it should! It seems you’ve really managed to anger quite a number of people.”

There’s a bucket and a brush, and that’s all the kindness the world is willing to give. It’s something, at least.

There’s no one to question your reason, yet with the guitar raised above your head, you still respond, “I’ve come for your heart.”

It starts with a simple and soft strum of the guitar. Imprints of the string mark your reddening fingers as you awkwardly play the correct cords. The humming starts with a shy tune, until you find the courage to fulfill your promise to sing just for Alastor.

Only for Alastor.

“Why do comets come my way if they were only meant to pass?” It wasn’t easy to learn this song, especially when the strings dig into your untrained and wounded fingers, and chafes the skin right off your hands. Still, you continue. “Why did your love fill my days if it was never meant to last? . . . Was it never meant to last?”

Each chord hurts . . . but . . . but Alastor’s once warm fingers almost wrap around yours. You need to keep going. You need to keep chasing. You need to keep playing. Even if the bandages around your fingers start to rip.

Are you smiling?

It seems you are.  Alastor would be proud to see such a thing.

“You were my brightest comet.” You sing into the air, even if your only listener lays several feet down the grass. Stopping is not an option.  “Will this be just another memory? An old page, with letters faded out.”

Yesterday’s bouquet . . .

Footprints stain the petals, leaving the colors dull and wilted. Leaves were ripped and torn from its stem, and it scattered all over the dying and wilted grass. A gust of wind, and the ruined flowers blow around you and into the flush grass of other people. There’s a metaphor there somewhere. Alastor could find it.

“Set me free from momentary shooting stars. When they leave, they leave you in the dark.”

How dare he get caught, honestly. How dare he get himself killed. How dare he steal your heart.

Sweet words . . . sweet songs. These are all things Alastor promises you, and these are the very promises he’s breaking. Still, it doesn’t stop you from strumming your fingers across the strings. Each pluck of your fingers opens the unhealed wounds even further.

And finally, the warmth of Alastor returns. The memories of how Alastor wraps his fingers around your own, correcting the positions on the string until you’re playing the correct cords.

He’s smiling at you again. It’s so wide and happy that the edges of his lips reach all the way up his eyes.

You smile back at the embers of what’s no longer there.

The tips of his fingers will play with your own, and his rough and calloused hands from years of practice will swipe across until he finally intertwines your hands. Suddenly, learning the guitar isn’t so important anymore, not when he holds you oh, so, softly.

“They come . . .” Your voice breaks, and the song stops with a halt.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The wrappings around your fingers stain red. You watch as patches of blood spread all around your raw fingers.

Once more, you place your hands back across the strings. Stopping is not an option. Not when he’s finally holding you with the softest of touches. The smallest of smiles. It’s nothing compared to the ones Alastor hangs on your face . . . still, it’s something.

You take a deep breath and continue. “…Then end.”

Alastor places a hand on your face, swiping his thumb up and down. It forces you to lean into the embers of his touch.

“What should I say, dear, for you to remain here?”

The strumming of your fingers keeps going, never once stopping its feverish pace. The music captures you in a frenzy, and you sing, filled to the brim with the ruins of your love.

“And though these nights are turning gray. Still, I am thankful for what's passed. I know there may come a day when I will finally understand . . . that it was never meant to last” You lean your head across the headstone. “Was it never meant to last?”

It’s love.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

And all that love gathers into the corner of your fingers, and it drips, and it drips, and it drips.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ

[procyonloser]

Lucifer sensed someone in front of his desk before he looked up to see who it was, and then found himself looking up and up to find their face. At a tattoo parlor, it wasn't like there weren't a lot of tall customers, and most customers were taller than Lucifer on a good day.

"Sup'." The guy said, looking down at him. "They sent me over to talk to you about my tattoos?"

"Oh, yup! That's me! I'm the owner!" Lucifer smiled, pushing to stand up, but he still only came up to about his chest. "What are you thinking about? I do free consultations, but any sort of design work there is a fee involved."

The guy pulled up his hoodie and under shirt, revealing his stomach up to above his nipple. He had two scars across his ribs, and golden piercings in his nipples.

"I want to get something badass to cover the scars, like something really metal. I've seen a few designs I liked, like barbed wire, thorns, or like you know that painting of God and Adam's hands reaching out to each other?" The man explained, gesturing at his chest, and Lucifer just stared at him. He really wasn't supposed to be attracted to his customers, and yet ...

"I'm Adam, so I thought that'd be cool. Creation of man, you know."

Silence filled the room for a long moment.

"Luci, baby, he's talking to you." Ozzie said from the desk, leaning back in his chair to look at him. "Stop drooling."

Lucifer snapped out of it, while Adam raised an eyebrow. He had nice eyebrows- what was wrong with him?!

"Right, sure, of course. We can do that. We recommend waiting about a year after surgery for tattoos over major scars, however. But, we've done similar tattoos before, so yeah. I can give you an idea of price range for each idea, and show some examples from our shop, from each artist." Lucifer explained, trying to get his mind back on track.

"I don't care about the cost." Adam said flippantly. "I want you to do me. I already checked your work out on Instagram."

Lucifer flushed. "Then I'll do you!"

"Luci," Ozzie said from the desk again, tone warning.

"I mean I'll do your tattoo!" Lucifer corrected, turning redder, but Adam just laughed.

[luveline]

Hello! Would it be alright to request something where prince!steve and his Princess attend their first formal event together?

tysm for requesting ♡ prince steve au

"Don't spill anything," Steve advises under his breath. "Your corset is alabaster." 

"I know. I feel like breathing the wrong way is gonna crack it like papier mache." 

He snorts, adjusting your hand on his arm to the correct position where you stand around a corner from the grand staircase. You wince as rich laughter bounces off the marble steps, the sound wrought with a feeling akin to hounds snapping at your heels. 

"Your nails look nice," Steve says. 

He's already complimented your face, your hair, and your dress. There's not much left to praise, but he finds something anyhow, and a flush of pleasure warms your skin. "Thank you," you say, looking down at your painted nails, a shimmering mother of pearl lacquer coating each one. The cost rivals a month's groceries. "They had so many colours… we started with red, but I thought it looked silly on me. My hands are weird." 

"Your hands are perfect." His eyes shine with sincerity, lips pulled into an amused smile that feels like a well-aimed bop to the chest. "I can get you more. Nail lacquer, I mean. There's a small Sri Lankan boutique by Cordelian House, they have all that intricate cosmetic stuff. It's where Munson gets his kohl sticks." He smiles at you reassuringly. "I'm trying to distract you. It's not working, is it?" 

"I'm going to mess up. Your mom– the queen–" 

"You can call her my mom. That's what she is." Steve nods his understanding of the things you've said without saying them. "She'll be disappointed if you mess up. But I won't be. I'm proud of you for even putting on the dress. I'd be proud of you if you didn't." 

You lick your lips, cherry balm sticky on the tip of your tongue. "Thank you, Steve." 

He says things like this with little regard for how forward it is. Not that subtlety is required. While antiquated in some aspects, the contemporary royal society is loudly lustful. You and Steve could be intimate together now weeks before the wedding and nobody would bat an eye, but you suspect that he's just as unprepared for that as you are, no matter how gently he covers your hand with his. 

There's a short sound like a bird call. Steve straightens his back, his thumb drawing a half circle across your fingers. "Ready?" he asks. 

You nod. You don't really have a choice. 

They announce you together, Prince Steven and his Soul Marked Y/N. It sounds ridiculous to hear his name after weeks of Please, call me Steve, or anything else but Steven. Doubly so to hear you announced as his and not yourself. A simple 'Miss' would have sufficed. Braced for a night of similar small agonies, you hold tight to Steve's arm and begin your descent down the grand staircase and into the foyer. The palace is a structure of white stone that shines silver in some lights, impossible walls of selenite and gauzy silks. The steps are more solid, a plain marble that clicks under the soles of your short heels. 

"Don't let me fall," you say under your breath, the hush of the crowd nearly occluding your voice completely. 

"Never." You can hear his polite smile. "Don't panic." 

You can't not panic, sweat at your naked collar, pearls like beads of ice bobbing with each step you take. The second you reach the floor you deflate with an exhale, your back clicking at the sudden decompression. There's a brief round of applause at your arrival before the cheery music begins anew, the dancing begins again, and the many faces that surround you blur into jewels and elegant clothes, fabrics coloured manilla white, snailshell purple, emerald green, a rainbow of satins swirling this way and that as girls are pushed into spins to the right of the foyer under the ballroom chandelier. 

"You'll dance with me, yeah?" Steve asks tentatively. 

You meet his eyes, all their soft brown gazing at you like you're worth his worry. His lashes twitch as his gaze darts swiftly down and up again. 

"Do I have something?" you ask, lifting your chin. 

"Lipstick. I can fix it?" He brings his hand to your lips before you've answered, using the trimmed nail of his pinky finger to wipe at your lip. You turn still as a porcelain statue, a shiver rushing down your chest at the warmth of his touch.

"You'll dance with me?" he asks again, his knuckle brushing your chin as he drops his hand. 

"Of course I'll dance with you, Steve. We're expected to." 

He throws a glance at the people around you and steps closer. "I want to dance with you because you want to dance. We don't have to do anything. Not this ball, not the dance. Not the wedding." He sighs. "You have choices." 

"No. I don't." Because there glows your wrist. Threads of translucency like spider web and downy feather combined, a sorry hue of blue. 

"Yes, you do," he whispers. "You want to leave? We'll leave right now. I just want you to be happy, and with me." 

You think about it. The weight of hundreds of eyes on your shoulders and the restriction of your corset is making you nauseous. If you left, that sickness would go. But Steve wouldn't get to dance with you.

"I don't want to leave," you say, not sure if you're lying or not. You'd quite like to have his hands on your hips again. And sometimes before the dip he breathes in your ear, says something soft, like Keep going, you got it. 

"No?" he asks, relieved. 

"No. Let's dance. We need the practice…" You offer your hand. He takes it, the smudge of lipstick on his pinky finger like a heart. "I'm sorry. I want to dance." 

"What are you sorry for?" he asks, leaning down to kiss the highest point of your cheek. "Let's dance. If you mess up, I'll mess up worse. I promise. I'll chicken dance in front of everybody."