#regardless all you have to do to make the battlefield more favorable is take a few hours to vote and shut up

[basically-fabulous]

u "don't vote" motherfuckers r stupid as shit

[justwinginglife]

Fire & Ice

Hoshina thought that you were the nicest ice queen he'd ever met.

You had grown quite the reputation for yourself, always giving your bluntest advice on how officers could improve themselves whether they asked for it or not, and regardless of if they ranked below or above you. It wasn't that you were cruel or heartless, you were simply just right.

"You're going to get yourself killed if you keep hesitating when you shoot."

"You favor your left side, try to strengthen your right sometime."

"If I can take your flimsy punch, a kaiju can too."

Your advice was always sound, but you were always so solemn when you were doling it out that other officers couldn't help but shrink at your criticism of them.

But not Hoshina. In fact, he relished the chance to let you critique him, showing him what he could improve on. It wasn't much, honestly. But you appreciated that he would actually listen to you, so you tried your best to help him where you could. He was the only person who understood that your brutal honesty came from a place of wanting to help, or at least not wanting to watch the people around you die.

Eventually, you even started to crave his commentary on your fighting, admiring his battle intellect and learning from it. You didn't mind criticism as long as it was justified and served you some use. But you thought that criticism due to ill will was just stupid.

Lately, some people had started spreading gossip about you just because you'd said something a little too harshly and hurt someone's feelings. You didn't know who it was because you were always hurting someone's feelings. But in this line of work, you didn't have time to worry about manners, manners might get them killed on the battlefield. They might get you killed on the battlefield.

And you had too many goals, too many things to do, too many debts to repay, too many regrets to make up for to allow yourself the pleasure of death anytime soon.

So you pushed on, ignoring whispers about you around corners, and glares at you in the hallways. You wished someone had told you all the things you were lacking when you were younger, maybe then you would've been strong enough to save everyone you wanted to save. But you weren't and you had to live with it. In comparison to carrying that heavy burden, you felt your fellow soldiers could bear your criticism a lot better. Maybe then they could save everyone they wanted to save. Or they'd die with your harsh words in mind; either way, you didn't feel too guilty. It was their own fault if they didn't take your advice to heart.

Even though everyday was seemingly the same, and everyone acted the same towards you, the same terrified eyes trying to avoid yours, or the same confrontational eyes daring you to say one more thing about their skills, the one person who constantly surprised you was Hoshina. His eyes were kind. His eyes lit up whenever you were around.

He'd find any excuse to talk to you, to walk with you. If you sped up to avoid him, he'd jog to keep up with you. Eventually, you found that one day you'd started matching pace with him instead.

You'd started going to the same coffee place as him and you'd order the same drink unknowingly. You'd started noting what time he arrived at base and you'd started coming into work at the same time so you could walk in together. You'd even begun saying the same things as him sometimes. It wasn't until you became conscious of all these subconscious habits you'd started forming around him that you realized the depths of your feelings for him.

You would've thought that the ghosts of all your dead family and friends constantly swirling around you would keep any feelings besides guilt at bay, but there they were nonetheless. They kept rising to the surface, flooding your cheeks with crimson whenever he came just a little too close during a training session, or complimented you just a little too much. And one compliment was already too much.

After hearing all the gossip about you, calling you the Ice Queen, you'd started to feel cold as ice yourself. So why did he make you feel like you were on fire? Like your lungs were inflamed, like your heart was ablaze, like your cheeks were burning. But it was the most delicious aching you'd ever felt.

And it was a different ache than the pain you felt for your relatives that were long gone. You knew you could never bring them back. But Hoshina, he was here everyday, you had every chance to spend time with him and it still wasn't enough. If you were on fire, you wanted to fill his lungs with your smoke. You wanted to engulf every part of him until you didn't even recognize yourself anymore, until you were just his.

At first, you tried to resist your feelings, scolding yourself for liking the first person who was ever nice to you. But then you realized that even if everyone was kind to you, Hoshina would still be the only one for you. When you met him, you hadn't laughed in years. You didn't even know if you remembered how to laugh. But then he took it as a challenge upon himself to see your smile, to coax a giggle from you, and you found it easier and easier to laugh around him, to enjoy yourself around him. He was the only person you enjoyed your time with.

After nearly a decade of reserving all the best parts of yourself, burying them deep inside you, feeling unworthy of allowing yourself any happiness, you felt you owed yourself this one chance to be free. To just be you. And if you could give yourself to anyone, you wanted it to be him.

You wanted to keep giving him things, to just give him everything. You wanted to give him your scarf in the winter, when you were scared he'd catch cold. You wanted to give him a shoulder to lean on when others were shitting on his inability to use a gun again (you hated useless criticism but you hated it even more when it was criticism of him). You wanted to give him your best jokes, you had none at the moment but you thought you'd learn just for him, just to see him laugh. You wanted to give him your happiness, give him your sadness, give him your secrets, give him your worries, give him your dreams, give him your days, give him your nights. Any part of you, every part of you, you wanted him to have them all.

You didn't know if he'd still love you, the good and the bad together, you didn't even know how much good you had to give, but you swore you'd dig for it, search for any part of you that would make him happy. Any part of you that could give him a good life, you wanted to give it. You wanted to try. And if you tried and still weren't good enough, you'd still thank him for allowing you a slice of happiness.

With all these thoughts in mind, you told yourself you'd tell him how you felt tomorrow. You collapsed in bed, ready for rest. You'd need it to prepare yourself for the big day.

Unfortunately you didn't end up getting any sleep that night.

You laid in bed and wondered if your heart would just freeze over again if he rejected you. You'd be okay with that. You think. You honestly didn't know what you were even supposed to do if he accepted you and wanted to be with you. Would you even know how to properly love and care for someone again? All you had been able to give people so far were blunt remarks.

What if you told him he sucked in bed? What if you told him you didn't like the way he snored? What if you couldn't shut up about all the things you didn't like him once you were dating? You didn't think you'd make for a very good girlfriend.

But even with that in mind, you still wanted to try.

Eventually, you hoisted yourself out of bed and went to go seek him out. You didn't have to go very far, he had been looking for you.

"Hey! You're up early today. Listen, I'm working on my skills with a single sword and I'm not happy with the way I'm progressing; you're the only one I trust to give me proper feedback. Train with me?"

You smiled at that. "Of course. Anytime."

You followed behind him as he led you to the training room. As you walked, you found your eyes roaming over his back muscles. You quickly looked down to the floor once you'd realized what you were doing. But then, in no time at all, your eyes had drifted back up again to take in every inch of his body. You really needed to tell him how you felt, it was getting cumbersome just existing near him. You needed him to put you in your place or let you run your hands all over him. You stopped in your tracks and he turned to look at you, puzzled.

"Before we do that, I need to tell you something."

"What, you're in love with me?" He joked, chuckling to himself.

You sucked in a sharp breath and then continued. "Yeah, that's pretty much the gist of it."

His eyes widened. "I was kidding. Oh my god, I was kidding. Wait, what?"

"Unfortunately, I'm not kidding. I'm in love with you."

He stepped towards you. "Why is it unfortunate?"

"Because I can't stop thinking about you. It's distracting."

He took another step closer. "And... what if I said I was fine with that? Distracting you?"

"You're okay with me loving you?"

He took your hands in his. "I'm more than okay with it- I'm ecstatic."

You exhaled loudly. "So you...?"

"I love you too. And I'd love to be distracted by you any day."

"I can do that."

You started with a kiss. You honestly didn't even know if you were doing it right and you were sure he could tell you were hesitant. But it seemed he'd been waiting for this as long as you were because he took in every inch of your lips eagerly and didn't seem to care how inexperienced you were.

And the longer you kissed him, the less you cared about how inexperienced you were. You just wanted to keep kissing him, even if you were kissing him wrong.

He must've just had his coffee because you could taste it on his tongue. But you didn't mind, his coffee was now your favorite coffee after all. And it made you even more desperate to be with him knowing that he must've just woken up, gotten his coffee, and then set out to find you.

The swarm of thoughts buzzing in your brain quieted when he suddenly pushed you up against a nearby wall, his kiss more earnest now. His lips seemed to be made for yours, the way they melted against you perfectly. His hips steadied yours against the wall as he cupped your face and claimed you over and over again with passionate kisses.

He was really the most delicious distraction.

You could get lost in imagining a future with him, but the present was pretty damn good too.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Author's Note: Yay, you made it to the end, good for you! Fun fact, kiss scene was not originally in the script for the finale, but I could hear @turtlesaee's commentary screaming at me for no kiss so I put kiss LMAO you have her to thank for the thirst at the end.

[kirkwallsfinest]

Glorified Lap Nug

Hawke and his dog are more alike than he thinks -- chiefly, in how damn clingy they both are.

Or, in which Hawke comes home and argues with his own dog over who gets your attention for the evening.

Garrett Hawke/Reader

The mabari — a large and ancient breed, their reputation as a fierce protector often precedes them. They’re strong and intelligent beyond words — this, any Ferelden could tell you, regardless of whether they’ve ever owned one themselves. Heroic hounds charging into battle, teeth bared against their foes, piercing howls that seem to rumble the battlefield… it’s a powerful image — one that’s etched itself into all of Ferelden, or perhaps, even all of Thedas. But what people don’t know, is that for all their might, they’re rather clingy, too.

A dramatic sigh from your doorway tells you that your lover is finally coming to terms with this fact.

You look up from your book, grinning in amusement. You raise your other hand in a wave, but the moment you pull your hand from the dog atop your chest, the hound lets out a whine — just as pitiful as his owner’s. You chuckle in turn, turning your attention back to the dog, but not before placing your bookmark in its place to cast the novel aside. It lands with a quiet “thud” somewhere on the bed, quick to be forgotten in favor of the pup demanding your attention — as though he hasn’t been commanding it for the better part of the day. It’s not often that you get a day free from your little “errands,” as you and Garrett have taken to calling them over the years — so the Maker will have to forgive you for using it to relax with your favorite animal. Both hands now free, you scratch behind his ears once more, and he grumbles contentedly, flopping back down with his head to your chest… meanwhile, Garrett grumbles in his own discontent, shutting the door to shuck his armor.

“You’re a war hound, Dog. War.” His chest piece falls to the floor, and he raises his hands in mimickry. “Barking, bloody, vicious? Ever heard of it?”

Dog, in response, only makes himself cozier in your hold. Hawke scoffs, fighting his way out of the last of his leathers with a half of a hop, nearly falling on his face in the process. You watch the display, amused, as he finally gets the damnable piece off. “Glorified lap nug,” he murmurs, before throwing his voice back to the dog, “I know you can understand me, Dog.”

Again, no response.

This time you can’t help but laugh in full — typical of him, to lose an argument with his own dog —but extend a beckoning hand nonetheless. At this he perks up from his melodramatic rambling, rounding the bed to instead kneel at your side. He leans forward, placing a quick, familiar kiss upon your lips. Some of the tension of the day seems to slip from his shoulders at this, and melts only further when you card a free hand through his hair to massage lightly at the base of his scalp. His eyes flutter shut at the gentle ministrations. For all of the adventuring you’ve been on over the years, you’re still shocked at how soft he’s managed to keep his locks — not that you’d ever ask “how,” for fear of inflating his ego any further. Although as you work your way through the tangled mess, the crunching sensation of slightly-singed hair makes itself known. You frown.

“You weren’t off fighting dragons without me, were you?”

“By the Maker, you think me so cruel?” His eyes crinkle in mischief, peering up at you from his spot on the ground, “I would never deprive you of such a thing.”

You raise your brow, questioningly, and he continues.

“I’m just too good at what I do…”

“Meaning?”

“Rogues work in the shadows, unseen… and I just happen to be so good at it that our wonderful, magical compatriots also didn’t see me before hurling a bit of fire.”

“So what you’re saying is that you were in the way?”

He chuckles, leaning into your hold a bit more, eyes drooping — “I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

You chuckle softly, taking in his gradually relaxing form. “Fenris will have a field day with this one,” you murmur.

“Don’t remind me,” he responds, letting his eyes finally flutter close.

That is, until the Mabari covering you barks in protest, startling you both out of the moment. Garrett shoots a glare at his companion, and you extract your hand from his locks to flick his chest lightly in warning — coaxing a pout from the man, not unexpectedly — before returning it to the hound.

“Be nice to him,” you scold, “he’s been doing a very good job at keeping me safe, you know.”

He hums, “Ah yes, because you’re so defenseless. I leave you at home for one day, and suddenly you’re helpless against the evils of the world? No, it must be quite the danger, for you to need a hand. What’s he protecting you from today? The horrors of the written word?” He gestures at your discarded book. “Or is he protecting you from your lovely—” a kiss to your forehead, “dashing—” to your cheeks, “devoted—” to your lips, “and exhausted boyfriend?”

You smile at his antics — dramatic as ever. “Well you see, it’s rather cold out tonight. Bit of a draft, we’ll have to find someone to fix that.”

He blinks, eyebrows raising in question. “So he’s protecting you from… the cold?”

A hum of affirmation from you, and he grins wickedly.

“Well, why didn’t you just say so?” He leans further into your space, continuing lowly, “If you needed a knight in shining armor, I am happy to apply, you know. I, myself, know plenty of ways to keep you warm, your majesty.”

You laugh, placing a hand to his bare chest to push him away playfully. “Maybe he should be protecting me from you!” Although your attempts to nudge him away backfire as he grabs your wrist, keeping the contact as he holds your hand firmly to his chest. He rises to his feet, only to prop his leg on the bed to lean over you. Dog barks wildly at this, and scrambles to the other side of the bed when he realizes Hawke is not, in fact, stopping his advance. You laugh, struggling in his hold, but to no avail.

“Gare’, you are filthy—”

“Your loyal protector has defected from the royal army—”

“You are not getting on this bed without a wash—”

“Whatever will you do, your majesty? There’s no time to waste, you’ll freeze if we wait any longer—”

“You are incorrigible—”

He silences your protests with a kiss, slotting himself between your legs as Dog barks on, until the latter ebbs into a single, defeated whine. Bested at his own game, he pads off to go play with another — at least, that’s what you assume. It’s hard to think straight when Garrett muddies your thoughts so effortlessly — he smiles into the kiss, and against your better thoughts, you throw your arms around his shoulders to bring him in closer. He groans softly into your mouth, pressing himself against you so firmly that he quickly becomes your whole world. Large, scarred hands wander down, and down, and—

Furious scratching at the door breaks you out of the moment once more, and this time the groan your lover lets out is rather different in tone. You laugh to yourself — Fuck it, you’ll wash the bedding tomorrow. You squeeze his bicep fondly, nodding your head towards the door: “Go let him out, love.”

[graysoncritic]

A (Negative) Review of Tom Taylor's Nightwing Run - What Went Wrong? Villains

Introduction Who is Dick Grayson? What Went Wrong? Dick's Characterization What Went Wrong? Barbara Gordon What Went Wrong? Bludhaven (Part 1, Part 2) What Went Wrong? Melinda Lin Grayson What Went Wrong? Bea Bennett What Went Wrong? Villains Conclusion Bibliography

During a discussion, Dick Grayson Fan C explained the importance of a balanced hero and villain dynamic by describing their relationship as inherently “symbiotic.”  The two, after all, are interlinked, and the success and failures of one affects the way the audience perceives the other. When the audience knows that the hero will win the final confrontation, the questions surrounding how they will do so and what price they’ll pay to achieve said victory is what creates tension. In other words, the way in which a struggle unfolds is just as, if not sometimes more, important than its outcome. 

Note that this symbiotic antagonistic dynamic is not limited to physical confrontations. A good hero-and-villain relationship is also an exploration of the protagonist’s psychology, their motivations, and the thematic questions of a story. A well-crafted villain should not only be providing a challenge to the hero in the battlefield, but also call into question the truths — or lies — that the hero believes in. 

Taylor’s antagonists fail to provide Dick with any such challenges. And, as such, they fail to provide Dick with the opportunity to truly demonstrate who he is and what values Nightwing embodies

To prove my point, I wish to compare Taylor’s handling of Blockbuster with that of Chuck Dixon and Devin Grayson. While I considered also analyzing Heartless in detail as well, because the main Heartless confrontation is currently unfolding as time of writing, and because my main gripes with how Heartless was handled during the beginning of the run have already been addressed in other parts of this essay, I opted instead to keep my mentions of him brief. Furthermore, not only does Taylor’s parroting of Dixon’s and Grayson’s runs makes the comparisons between their Blockbusters unavoidable, but his take on Roland Desmond perfectly demonstrates how his simplistic morality contradicts the nuanced themes of social justice that seem to interest him. 

(Similar to an earlier disclaimer I made on Dixon, I want to make it clear that just because I am comparing Grayson’s run favorably to Taylor’s, it does not mean that I am unaware of the issues present in her own story, nor that I disagree with much of the criticism directed at it. Despite enjoying much of what she wrote, I also readily concur that there are problematic elements to it, and I often found myself questioning her intentions as I was unable to discern them. But that is something that would deserve its own essay and I do not want to further derail this one by discussing the extensive controversies about Grayson’s run and the way it is often regarded by Dick Grayson fans. Regardless of one's opinion of Grayson’s statements, I believe it is unquestionable that she handled Blockbuster’s ruthlessness and the way he personally terrorized Dick through a form of targeted persecution that was mentally and emotionally torturous was leagues above the generic intimidation tactics employed by Taylor’s Blockbuster.)

When I claim that Taylor’s characterization of Blockbuster reveals his simplistic morality, I do not mean to imply that I wish for Blockbuster (or even Heartless, for that matter) to be sympathetic. I do not believe that they must have redeemable qualities that endear them to the reader in order for them to be interesting. While I enjoy the tragic villain trope, I���m also a big fan of the terrible villain who gets under your skin and inspires such hatred that you cannot wait to see them defeated. I believe that just as a person can enjoy both comedies and dramas without thinking one genre is superior to the other, we can also have all sorts of villains and enjoy them on their own terms. 

That being said, I do expect villains to be interesting. I expect them to be meaningfully contributing to the story not only in terms of narrative conflict, but in challenging the protagonist, in creating stakes, and in being in conversation with the themes explored in a story, whatever those themes may be. 

So know that when I am criticizing Taylor’s villains, I’m not doing so because I wish they were completely different characters from whom they were intended to be. When I critique their simplistic morality, I do so because Taylor invited such criticism when he coated his run in the veneer of social and political justice commentary by alluding to real world problems and trying to show how Dick Grayson would resolve them.

Let’s start by defining who Roland Desmond is, what conflicts his presence generates, and what he is meant to stand for in the narrative. 

When examining Redondo’s design for this character, their intentions come through almost immediately: Blockbuster is meant to be threatening, corrupt, and ruthless. He is meant to be the type of oppressor who enriches himself at the expense of others. He yields his power to remain on top of the food chain, shamelessly bribing politicians and threatening his enemies. He will stop at nothing to retain control, he will not hesitate to destroy those who so much as dare to think about standing in his way. He has no sympathy for others, he does not care about their suffering, and he will gladly sacrifice their lives and the lives of their loved ones to get what he wants. All of these characteristics are physically manifested in his design, in which his oppressive frame demonstrates how he overpowers others and his giant hands are shown to be the type that could crush one’s bones just as his shadowy reign over Bludhaven crushes the city’s soul. 

(Taylor, Tom, writer. Redondo, Bruno, illustrator. Leaping into the Light Part Two. Nightwing: Rebirth. 79, e-book ed. DC Comics, 2021. pp 14)

We can see this also through the dialogue of the story. For example, in #81, Melinda gets sworn in as mayor and Blockbuster’s men, in order to demonstrate the power they have over the politicians in the city, give her a suitcase full of money as a representation of the bribes that will be coming Melinda’s way.

(Taylor, Tom, writer. Bruno, illustrator. Leaping into the Light Part 4. Nightwing: Rebirth. 81, e-book ed. DC Comics, 2021. pp 04)

Melinda, in order to continue her work undercover, plays into that by stating in a line that is as devoid of personality as it is of subtlety that, as mayor, she will make them all wealthier.

Similarly, in #83, Blockbuster states (also with little personality and little subtlety) that he owns the courts, that he sees himself as entitled to Bludhaven, and that because of the power he yields, he sees himself as invincible. 

(Taylor, Tom, writer. Redondo, Bruno, illustrator. Leaping into the Light Part Six. Nightwing: Rebirth. 83, e-book ed. DC Comics, 2021. pp. 08)

Nightwing reaffirms this idea in that same issue when he says (also devoid of personality, subtlety, and this time charm or wit) that Blockbuster is “everything wrong with this city in one convenient, oversized package.”

This is what the conflict between Blockbuster and Nightwing is meant to symbolize — a struggle for the city’s future. Will Bludhaven continue to crumble under Blockbuster’s rule, or will Nightwing free it from his corrupt grip so that its citizens can finally have a chance to thrive? Even in the 1996 series, during both Dixon’s and Grayson’s runs, Blockbuster did not pose a threat to Dick’s morals or his world view. He did not make Dick question the way he saw people. Blockbuster’s targeting of Dick Grayson and his loved ones demonstrates how those with privilege go after the people who are fighting for change. Dick’s exhaustion and hopelessness mimics the same sense of helplessness one feels when it seems like the entire world is against you and the consequences for doing what is right can seem too great of a price to pay. 

For this reason, Blockbuster does not need to be complex. He does not need to be sympathetic. But he does need to be powerful, threatening, and ruthless. He must push Dick to the edge, to make it seem like all it is lost, and in turn, when Dick finally pushes through and wins, it is a victory on both a personal and a societal level.

And this is where Taylor fails miserably. 

Now, I have stated previously how, despite Taylor’s attempts, his rendition of Blockbuster comes off as flatly incompetent rather than threatening. I have discussed this under the context of how it influences the way Dick’s and Bludhaven’s portrayal. Now, I wish to dig deeper into this issue. 

We are told of countless attempts on Dick’s life, but the only ones shown are overcome by Dick and his allies with ease. Either that, or the tension is undermined by a one-line joke or a general tone of casualness that fails to properly convey the stakes of the moment. Any threat that could have been created with Haley’s kidnapping or any intimidation tactic is destroyed by the gimmicky nature of the issue. This makes Blockbuster less of a threat. 

And yet, we are told by Wally that Dick is stressed and overworked. But because there is not a lot of tension on screen, that telling rings hollow. The reader is not shown that Dick is overworked, and he is not shown truly struggling alone against the obstacles he does face, so this idea of Dick coming apart at the seams because of Blockbuster is not something the reader gets to truly experience. As a result, it often appears that Dick is coddled by his loved ones as everything always ends up alright with little effort made on their part. Rather than witnessing true danger take a toll on Dick, we are simply told this is something that is happening. 

(Taylor, Tom, writer. Redondo, Bruno, illustrator. Get Grayson Act Three. Nightwing: Rebirth. 90, e-book ed. DC Comics, 2022. pp 16)

By comparison, when Grayson first wrote this same story nearly twenty years ago, she made it carry weight. She made it have consequences. While Dick was already coming apart from a myriad of different stress factors that unfolded on screen (overworking himself as Nightwing, as a police officer, saving Amy from Deathstroke, being fired from his job, Babs breaking up with him, and finally the circus fire), it was the explosion that made Dick fall apart, serving as the catalyst for his downward spiral. As Dick hunts down those Blockbuster employed, the readers get to see Dick’s exhaustion, Dick pushing himself to his limits, sleeping on fire-escapes while wearing his Nightwing uniform because he cannot bring himself to stop.

(Grayson, Devin, writer. Zircher, Patch, illustrator. Rekindle. Nightwing no 91, e-book ed. DC Comics, 2004. pp. 15)

Similarly, when the Judge returned to Bludhaven in The Untouchable, we see Dick keeping count of the bodies he left behind, we see Dick push through a bullet wound and beatings, we see him chase the Judge restlessly while neglecting his personal life. In both cases, we see the consequences of what Dick’s failure means, we see him struggle with those outcomes, we see what is at stake if Dick loses. And that, in turn, makes us not only care, but become invested in his success. 

(Humphries, Sam, writer. Chang, Bernard, illustrator The Untouchable: Chapter Four: Infiltration. Nightwing: Rebirth no. 38, e-book ed. DC Comics, 2018. pp. 19)

By contrast, in Taylor’s run we never see any of that danger, and the few times we are presented with some threat, the conflict is handled with laughable ease. Blockbuster’s plots are foiled without Dick ever needing to do much of anything as he mostly relies on others to come to his aid. In this Nightwing solo series, the Titans, Batman, Robin, and Batgirl often do much of the hero-ing. Rather than putting the spotlight on Dick as a hero, Taylor lets others take the center stage, making this into an almost ensemble book. Because of this, the idea of Dick being near a breaking point, exhausted, and feeling unsafe wherever he goes is not supported by the narrative. By not giving Blockbuster a win, Taylor undermines the story he is attempting to tell. 

This continues on through Nightwing #91. While Wally and Dick’s friendship were portrayed rather nicely, the villain that Taylor so ominously built up is taken down with an ease that is devoid of tension. The villain who is supposedly so good they’ve kept their existence a secret from Batman himself is quickly undermined by Taylor’s unwillingness to have his characters struggle. 

(Taylor, Tom, writer. Redondo, Bruno, illustrator. Get Grayson Act Three. Nightwing: Rebirth. 91, e-book ed. DC Comics, 2022. pp 16-17)

Besides the poor execution of his plans, however, it must be stated that Blockbuster’s plans and his motivations are poorly developed. Again, I’m not saying that Blockbuster needs to have a single sympathetic aspect to his character, but he does need to be threatening, and he must have some internal logic. Looking at the story Taylor has created, I wonder… Why does Blockbuster care that Dick Grayson created the Alfred Pennyworth Foundation? Why does he care about the creation of Haven? I understand that Blockbuster is meant to be a corrupt crime boss who wants to retain control of the city, but how does Dick building Haven interfere with his plans? Why was one billionaire throwing his money around to help homeless youths a bleep in his radar? Blockbuster already has politicians and the police force in his pocket while Bludhaven’s systems were constructed to benefit him and those who endear themselves to him. So why is he so focused on destroying Dick Grayson and not Nightwing?

I am trying to restrict my comparisons to DC Comics media, but in this, I cannot help but think of President Snow’s portrayal in the Hunger Games movie adaptations. In a movie-only scene, President Snow tells Seneca Crane about the importance of having a winner in the games. He explains how it is about letting the people have hope. As he put “A little hope is effective, a lot of hope is dangerous. A spark is fine, as long as it's contained.” 

In other words, giving the people a spark of hope to keep them distracted can help prevent mass mobilization required to disrupt the system. Give them a goal to focus on, and you can redirect their attention. It would, then, be far more sinister and make far more sense from a narrative standpoint if Blockbuster allowed Dick to focus on his one project so that instead he would not turn his attention to Blockbuster. Perhaps he could have attempted to manipulate the project from within, folding it into Bludhaven’s corrupt social systems. Dick would have been that little spark that Blockbuster could have cultivated, giving the people of Bludhaven "hope" so that they would focus on that and not on what is going on behind the scenes. The narrative arc, then, would focus on Blockbuster failing to contain the spark as Dick became the flame that breathed true systematic change.

I do not want to dwell too much into fixes, as I merely wished to analyze Taylor’s run and not to go full on script-doctor and rewrite the entirety of his story. Rather, I just wished to use that as an example of how Blockbuster does not have sound plans or internal logic, and that, too, contributes to how his character comes across as incompetent and nonthreatening, and as a result, even his supposed ruthlessness is undercut.

Taylor’s Blockbuster does not have a concrete goal. He wants power and money, yes, but for what purposes? And how does he acquire said power and money? Why is he threatened by Dick Grayson’s personal project? How are his intimidation tactics challenging Dick in an interesting way? How are Blockbuster and Nightwing meant to narratively play off each other? How are Taylor’s Blockbuster tactics any different from a generic villain with any other name?

To be fair to Taylor, I do not believe Dixon managed to fully nail this part of Blockbuster’s character. I did not find Dixon’s writing of Blockbuster to be a particularly compelling part of his run. However, Dixon countered this lack of substance by leaning into what Blockbuster was meant to represent — the system inside the machine that allowed evil to flourish. Blockbuster’s influence may have been everywhere, but Blockbuster himself was hardly ever confronting Nightwing directly. Dick was fighting a war on multiple fronts, and while he could stop an enemy on his right, two more appeared on his left. The way the struggle between Blockbuster and Nightwing played out during Dixon’s run emphasized why protecting Bludhaven was so difficult — because there were so many immediate crises that needed to be dealt with on the surface, it was difficult to get to the root of the problem.

This was why, during Dixon’s run, Blockbuster could remain a threat even if he would remain unseen for long stretches of time. And this was why when Dick stopped one of the underlings, Blockbuster himself could remain an intimidating force. Blockbuster’s machinations were varied — some of his plans targeted Nightwing directly; others Dick only stumbled upon when investigating a matter he believed to be unrelated. Furthermore, the limited number of allies and the prospect that Blockbuster could only be taken down for good once his grip on other institutions of power and influence were weakened emphasized just how this was no ordinary fight, but rather a mission requiring Dick to operate on multiple fronts and strategize on a long-term basis. 

Taking down Blockbuster was a multi-step process. Each of said steps offered their own challenges and opportunity for storytelling, for fleshing out Bludhaven, and for allowing Dick to grow as the protagonist of the story.

Dixon’s approach to Blockbuster requires Blockbuster to stay in the background, looming over the city as Dick fights his way forward. It’s why he remains present for all 70 issues of Dixon’s run without undermining Dick’s competence or his dedication to his city — as a stand-in for corrupt power, Blockbuster himself is not an immediate threat even if he is the powerful underlining one. Dick must constantly fight others in order to eventually be able to fight Blockbuster. To borrow video-game terminology, Blockbuster is the final boss, and Dick must first go through a myriad of levels and smaller enemies before he gets to finally take down Blockbuster for good. 

It was Grayson who made the conflict between Dick and Blockbuster personal and, as a result, far more sinister. After the death of his mother in a car pile up caused by Nightwing’s activities, Blockbuster was determined to get his revenge on Nightwing. After finding out Nightwing’s civilian identity, Blockbuster came up with a chilling plan that was specifically made to destroy Dick from the inside out. Blockbuster understood that Dick did not value his own life, but rather, those of the people around him. And so, he decided that rather than killing Nightwing, he would instead kill everyone around Dick, tormenting and terrorizing him until he felt as if he were poisonous. What was so poetic about this strategy was that it mirrored what, in Blockbuster’s eyes, was Nightwing’s biggest sin: the danger he imposed on others through his actions which resulted in the death of Blockbuster’s mother. 

As you can see, in this scenario, Blockbuster has become more of a proper character rather than just a stand in for corruption. That is not to say that wielding power for self-serving purposes at the expense of others isn’t a factor in his character during Grayson’s run, but rather that while Dixon’s Blockbuster was more of an embodiment of an idea, Grayson’s was more human, with more personal motivations. One approach is not inherently better than the other, they simply lean towards opposing sides of the spectrum, and that affected the type of story told and the type of confrontation Dick and Blockbuster had during their runs. 

Because Grayson took a more personal approach towards Dick and Blockbuster’s dynamic, she also fleshed out their relationship to the point that it was not generic. Blockbuster’s campaign of terror against Dick was intimate, for it was something that could only have played out between these two characters. And while Dixon laid out the groundwork to build Blockbuster into a threatening figure by the time Grayson took over the title, Grayson’s strategy to have Blockbuster go after those around Dick allowed her to have Dick win and lose simultaneously. 

Blockbuster starts his campaign of terror slowly. First, getting Tarantula to contribute to Dick and Babs’ breakup. While she is not the sole reason why they break apart — they are shown to have had some tension long beforehand that comes from incompatible personalities and desires — she does become a factor in their falling out. This ends up isolating Dick even further, who was already stressed due to the fact he lost his job once his boss and superior Amy discovered he was Nightwing.

(Grayson, Devin, writer. Zircher, Patch Snowball. Nightwing. 87, e-book ed. DC Comics, 2003. pp 17 - 18)

Then, Blockbuster strikes closer to home by hiring Firefly to set fire to the circus Dick grew up in. While Dick was able to save many people who were inside the tent (and had his own life saved by Zitka), over twenty people lost their lives in this incident. 

(Grayson, Devin, writer. Davis, Shane, illustrator. Flurry. Nightwing no 88, e-book ed. DC Comics, 2003. pp. 16)

While that certainly worked in breaking Dick’s spirit, it wasn’t until Dick’s building exploded that he realized this was a targeted attempt to get to him. All of those innocent people died not because Blockbuster was trying to kill Dick, but rather, because Blockbuster knew that their deaths would destroy him.

(Grayson, Devin, writer. Zircher, Patch, illustrator Avalanche. Nightwing no 89, e-book ed. DC Comics, 2004. pp. 12)

What follows is a downward spiral that demonstrates just how thoroughly Blockbuster is able to break Dick. Even as Dick gains new ground by taking out some of Blockbuster’s hired assassins, the threat still looms over him. And even when it seemed like Dick finally found a way to take down Blockbuster for good, that hope is snatched from him. The anger and helplessness Dick experiences in this moment truly speaks to the same feeling many of those who stand up against their oppressors feel whenever they are faced with setbacks in their constant battle. 

(Grayson, Devin, writer. Garcia, Manuel, illustrator Flashpoint. Nightwing no 92, e-book ed. DC Comics, 2004. pp. 21)

The carnage continues. The reporter who had uncovered Nightwing’s identity and just so happened to be standing next to Dick is mercilessly shot dead in front of Dick’s eyes. 

(Grayson, Devin, writer. Zircher, Patch, illustrator. Slowburn. Nightwing no 93, e-book ed. DC Comics, 2004. pp. 07)

And as Blockbuster chases Dick down, putting others in harm, we can see as Dick tries to protect innocent people around them that Blockbuster will not stop. He will not rest.

(Grayson, Devin, writer. Zircher, Patch, illustrator. Slow Burn. Nightwing no 93, e-book ed. DC Comics, 2004. pp. 10-11)

Blockbuster says it himself in a speech where he lays out exactly what his plans for Dick are. Dick is at a breaking point. The enemy, huge and impossible to overcome, towers over him. As the climax reaches its crescendo, Blockbuster asserts his power by mocking Dick and laying out a future in which Dick can never escape this hopeless terror. This city belongs to Blockbuster. Dick is powerless. There is no winning.

(Grayson, Devin, writer. Zircher, Patch, illustrator. Slow Burn. Nightwing no 93, e-book ed. DC Comics, 2004. pp. 13 - 15)

This speech is visceral. Personal. Evocative and filled with character and emotion. These words could not have been uttered by anyone else but Grayson’s version of Blockbuster. And they could have not been directed at anyone but Dick at this very moment. This speech has specificity that was purposefully crafted to raise the tension of this moment to its fullest potential.

By comparison, Taylor’s “I am this city” line is generic. Like much of his dialogue, it lacks character — nothing about what Blockbuster says feels distinctive to him. Nothing sets it apart from how other characters speak in Taylor’s world, and nothing about it is unique to this particular confrontation. Even the way he bangs his hands on the ground like a toddler throwing a tantrum (and resulting in Dick’s second unmasking in this run) is childish and undermines the tension of what is meant to be a climatic moment.

(Taylor, Tom, writer. Redondo, Bruno, illustrator. The Battle for Bludhaven’s Heart Part Four. Nightwing: Rebirth. 95, e-book ed. DC Comics, 2022. pp 20)

The themes in Grayson’s run are not the same as the themes in Taylor’s run. However, Blockbuster still invokes the threat of an oppressor. By isolating Dick from his support system, his terror and the helplessness it generates are intensified. Rather than making Dick question his own morality, he makes Dick doubt his abilities to be a hero.

While Dixon used Blockbuster’s intimidating build and power to explore the ways in which systematic corruption is responsible for the immediate evils we encounter in everyday life, Grayson used those very same characteristics to explore how one copes with being oppressed on a personal scale. Grayson’s Blockbuster pushes Dick to the darkest place he’s ever been, and the aim of her run was to see how he would be able to put himself back together again after he lost faith in his ability to make a difference.  

Those two runs demonstrate how Blockbuster’s grip on power can be used to oppose Nightwing in two very different ways. Dixon’s approach requires Blockbuster to stand at a distance, the unseen machine that Dick will have to eventually destroy. This allowed Blockbuster to remain Nightwing’s main opponent for all 70 issues of Dixon’s run without ever calling into question Dick’s competence or his dedication to his mission as Blockbuster, the themes he embodied, and the struggle Dixon built clearly signaled that, no matter how great Nightwing was or how much he might wish to do so, the circumstances were not at a point where Dick could take on Blockbuster and succeed. By contrast, Grayson shifted Blockbuster from a long term, simmering threat to an immediate and personal one. This, though, also meant that the conflicts in Grayson’s run were more internal than those of Dixon’s. While Blockbuster was the enemy, the true antagonistic force that Dick would be forced to battle throughout Grayson’s run was Dick’s depression, his self-loathing, and his self-doubt. For this reason, rather than standing in the background while others did his bidding, Grayson’s run pushed Blockbuster to center stage. As he became an urgent threat who was costing people their lives every minute he roamed around free, apprehending him was no longer something Dick could afford to create a strategy around — it was something that demanded prioritization. 

Nearly twenty years later, Taylor’s attempts to merge these two approaches only serves to lessen Dick’s competence and Blockbuster’s threat. Like Dixon, Taylor uses  Blockbuster to represent, as it was plainly stated in his run, everything that is wrong with Bludhaven – the men in power who “have everything and still want to take more.”

(Taylor, Tom, writer. Redondo, Bruno, illustrator. Battle for Bludhaven’s Heart Finale. Nightwing: Rebirth. 96, e-book ed. DC Comics, 2022 pp. 08)

And yet, it is Grayson’s plot beats that he copies by having Blockbuster personally target Dick in a myriad of unsuccessful ways. 

While Grayson’s Blockbuster targets Haly’s Circus, Taylor’s Blockbuster targets Dick’s dog, Haly. While Grayson’s Blockbuster successfully kills Dick’s neighbors, Taylor’s Blockbuster fails to kill Dick’s neighbors thanks to Melinda and Wally’s intervention. 

Because of this personal persecution, Blockbuster becomes Dick and his allies’ priority. However, because Taylor’s Blockbuster’s actions never have any negative consequences; because the humorous tone is always undermining the tension; and because the reader does not get see Dick struggle or fail against Blockbuster’s attempts the way he does in Grayson’s run, Blockbuster’s does not come across as the larger than life villain he is meant to be. Rather, his constant failures, his generic dialogue and unclear motivations, and his straightforward intimidation tactics make him more into a fumbling fool whose powerful position is incidental rather than the result of merciless oppression. 

And yet, he becomes Nightwing’s priority. Thematically, Taylor’s Blockbuster is meant to imitate Dixon’s, but the narratively he acts like Grayson’s Blockbuster. This makes it so he is more of an immediate threat than Dixon’s villain, but less effective in his terror tactics than Grayson’s. 

With the consequences of Blockbuster’s crimes being non-existent plot-wise, the stakes of the plot are never elevated. Blockbuster’s threat remains abstract because in Taylor’s run, everyone who is not an explicit bad guy has plot armor so thick that they cannot be forced into an uncomfortable on-screen situation for more than two or three pages at a time.

The clashing of theme and plot create enough of a dissonance as it is, but the presence of Heartless, who is actively and brutally murdering people and leaving children orphan, only deepens the problem. Heartless’ gory crimes not only overshadow Blockbuster’s failed assassination attempts, but the sheer amount of people who have fallen victim to his deeds creates an urgency and a tension that demands to be resolved. 

Though Dick is aware of Heartless' existence, he does not make the serial killer his priority. When Grayson made Blockbuster’s threat more immediate and Dick became aware of the rising body count, stopping Blockbuster became his sole focus, to the detriment of his own health. Dick’s obsession with catching Blockbuster at all costs helped add to that intimidating aura around him. 

Humphries understood this when crafting the dynamic between Dick and the Judge in The Untouchable. Heroes and their villains have a symbiotic relationship. When the Judge kills people in brutal ways, Dick jumps into action and stops at nothing until he catches him. This shows the audience that the Judge is a threat to be taken seriously, and it shows Dick to be a hero who will always put others first. When Dick fails to take the same approach with Heartless and instead focuses on Blockbuster, Dick comes across as an incompetent and self-centered. 

(Humphries, Sam, writer. Chang, Bernard, illustrator. The Untouchable: Chapter One: Hunter. Nightwing: Rebirth no. 35, e-book ed. DC Comics, 2018 pp. 20)

At this point, one might be wondering why high stake conflicts and ruthless villains are even needed in a Nightwing comic. I have seen many people defend Taylor’s writing by claiming that they enjoy the fact that it has no tension. They like the easiness of it, the slice-of-life nature of his storytelling. And while even his slice-of-life writing is not really my cup-of-tea, I can understand this sentiment. Taylor seems to truly enjoy writing the more sitcom-aspects of Dick and Babs’ life together. It is not the fights, the mystery, the intrigues, the nuances of living a double life that interest him — it’s the taking care of the rescue puppy, the sharing of a pizza in the park, the two childhood friends finally getting to live an idealistic millennial adult life together without having to worry about everyday problems like work, rent, family troubles, or disagreements. He thrives when writing stories that remain static, with simple episodic plots that never truly lead to character development or a change in the status-quo. He excels in quippy yet straight-forward dialogue where things don’t need to be taken seriously.  

And to be clear, I don’t think that is a bad thing. I don’t think slice-of-life or sitcoms are a lesser art form than dramas or action series. Like many people, I too, have been comforted by that type of entertainment. I, too, find escape in those sorts of stories. I daydreamed about a life where I could just enjoy time with my friends without thinking about work, where the worst problem I face is how to avoid going to a party without appearing rude. Those stories have value, they have their place in our culture… But Nightwing's solo series is not that place. 

Now, this will probably be the one of the most controversial things I will say in this entire essay, but despite my love for Nightwing, I do not believe that the Nightwing mantle is Dick’s ultimate true form. 

In DC Secret Files: Nightwing Secret Files #1, Dixon explores the aftermath of Dick being fired as Robin by having Dick confess, with a certain amount of shame, that he always thought that he would eventually become Batman. Bruce understood that and he was preparing Dick to be his successor. Losing Robin, then, means losing any certainty Dick has for his future. Suddenly, he is adrift, not only having lost Robin, but also Batman. And that’s when Clark tells him the story of Nightwing. 

(Dixon, Chuck; Grayson, Devin; Peterson, Scott; writers. Ha, Gene; Scott, Damion; Land, Greg; Stelfreeze, Brian; Guice, Jackson; Eaglesham, Dale; Floyd, John; Jimenez, Phil; Brown, Eliot R.; McDaniel, Scott; Nolan, Graham; Rosado, William; Kuhn, Andy, illustrators. DC Secret Files: Nightwing Secret Files #1. DC Secret Files: Nightwing Secret Files #1 no. 01, e-book ed. DC Comics, 1999. pp 15)

Personally, I think there’s something really special about that idea. The Nightwing story grounded Dick during one of the most uncertain times in his life. Dick wanted Robin and Batman, but once both were taken from him, he created Nightwing as a way of coping with the trauma of having his identity, future, and certainty taken from him.

Braxi concludes his essay On Superman, Shootings, and the Reality of Superheroes by saying that “I don’t need Batman to end homelessness. I need Batman and Superman to provide moral and spiritual guidance to show us a better world is possible. I read Batman to transform trauma into will power.” (Braxi, Steve, “On Superman, Shootings, and the Reality of Superheroes” Comics Bookcase, September 2021)

The same, I believe, is true for Dick. As the character created to accompany Bruce and mirror him in as many regards as he foils him, Dick transforms trauma into power. He makes his own suffering a source of good.

As I said, I do not believe Nightwing to be Dick’s ultimate, truest form. I believe that to claim that Dick’s only happy ending is to have him be Nightwing not only diminishes the importance that Robin and Batman played in his life, but it also undermines what is so unique about Nightwing as a mantle. 

Dick loves being Nightwing. Nightwing is an extension of who he is. But Nightwing is not the only happy ending Dick could have had, and to treat Nightwing as inevitable is to ignore the fact that Nightwing was born out of a trauma and a loss that could have been prevented had the circumstances that led to Dick losing Robin been different. Nightwing means transformation. He means change. Nightwing is a phoenix-like Kryptonian myth, raising himself from the ashes. But for the ashes to exist, a deadly fire must first occur. Nightwing, this great hero of light, can only be born out of pain. He can only arise from conflict.

This is one of the things that makes Dick so special. When he is overpowered, he does not give up. When he is hurt, he transforms that pain into power. No matter how many times he loses, no matter how many times he is lost, he always rises again, with a beautiful smile and an unwavering kindness that inspires others — including Superman, especially Batman — to do the same.

That is why a Nightwing story needs conflict. This is why he needs ruthless villains. That’s why a Nightwing story needs the occasional failure. Because it is only when we see Dick at his lowest that we also get to see him overcoming darkness, showing why he is the best of the best and why we love him so much.

[megamuscle885-blog]

TW: Suicide mention. Worm Spoilers.

Reprising my Neil Cicierega post from before about how "Mullet with Butterfly Wings" is a skitter/scurry/chitter song.

Crocodile Chop is a Gold Morning song. The lyrics are all very slurred and drunken. She's lurching around. Amy's hands on her as she "Wake(s) up!". "Why'd you leave the keys on the table?" Who's just leaving Amy alone with Taylor. They had to know she was going to do something drastic. Lisa should've, and that's the tragedy isn't it? "Here you go and create another fable." The myth, making Taylor into a weapon. Maybe I'm reading a little too much into it, but this is supposed to be a fun little post anyway, it's not too serious.

Except "I don't think you trust in my self-righteous suicide." is just a dead on, straight between the eyes, punch to the forehead shining example of Taylor Hebert's character in this moment.

The scream for Fathers feels a little bit like Taylor's frustrations with Danny, and maybe a little bit of QA (who is currently in the driver's seat) might be feeling a little forsaken by her father Scion herself in this moment? "Father into your hands I commend my spirit." and the whole section there, is SOAD directly lifting words from Jesus' crucifixion. This one's not a particularly deep take from me, but you can see Jesus' crucifixion as a kind of self-righteous suicide, huh? And Taylor is also putting herself on the line, as usual, and sacrificing any other kind of future she may have had for herself in favor of the greater good, and the unity of humanity. It's a consistent, doomed worldview she's held ever since "Cut Ties, I'm Sorry." entered the picture. She put the Undersiders aside. She spent more time with the Chicago Wards than them, and her time with them wasn't even worth mentioning in the text. She sets them aside too. She trains Golem because they have a shared enemy, but there's nothing else there. There can be nothing else there when she has to go die on the cross, unknowingly, but still. The Simurgh, Contessa and Dinah all conspiring to put her in the right place at the right time.

My read of SOAD's lyrics seem focused on the 'right to die', about how nobody truly deserves to die, but we all will die, but there are some people who are condemned regardless of their circumstances for the method of their death. Serj Tankian brings up his potential for dying in a drug overdose as his example of someone dying in a shameful way, and therefore 'deserving' to die. (This is just me paraphrasing the wikipedia entry I'm not uncovering new ground here lol). There's also the very literal Angel-like being hovering over the battlefield to consider.

Choosing how you go out is more than some people get. Except Taylor doesn't get to choose how she goes out in the end, does she? Taylor doesn't really have a choice here. The Simurgh chooses. Dinah chooses. Contessa chooses. That little static burst as the song fades out to "Transmission" (a little bit where a numbers radio is played interspersed with the introductory rift from David Bowie's Space Oddity) sounds like her turning her head to see Contessa sitting there with her gun in her hand.

All of this is set to Elton John's Crocodile Rock, which I haven't really listened to enough to have thoughts on it. I don't really have any deep takes on his side of the mashup, other than the fact that the piano and Serj's "Die" is pitch shifted to Elton's "laa, la-la-la-la-laa" making it very unsettling.

I've been listening to too much of Neil's music while driving to work and it's starting to mix together with all of the other brain worms, creating intricate mental AMVs, and it shows.

[box-architecture]

more of this specific au

Quackity destroying Dream's scalp and hair in prison. Sam holding a piece of hair to inspect the damage.

Sam is actually really upset about this, even though Dream doesn't get why

Ah yes, torture is okay, but but destroying her hair? Something Sam used to spend hours brushing when they were young, and made her stare when Dream was on the battlefield?

Sam ends up banning Quackity for a week and tries to repair the damage herself. (Sam is. Extremely Stressed. Dream's hair is Important. It's a sign that things are Normal. Dream can't really be having too hard a time, she's still taking care of her hair!)

Dream will 100 percent insist she doesn't care and that it doesnt matter, shes being tortured for fucks sake. (Being feminine was important to her. Being able to go toe to toe with anyone and win while also getting to be a woman. Because there's always that pressure to sort of. renounce femininity when you get higher up. People sneer at you for caring about your appearance)

She bites her tongue while Sam inspects her scalp, and there's a deep, resentful pit in her stomach. Just A Pretty Thing. Regardless of what she was enduring. It felt like the torture wasn't real for Sam until she saw this. And there's some part of Dream that wants Sam to see how ugly it really was. Sam finally getting a glimpse of the reality, torture isn't pretty, this isn't a game that Sam can win.

When Quackity is let back in it shatters something inside her a bit. She keeps finding little bits of faith in Sam and it keeps proving futile. Since this is an alternate communication knife au she probably starts up the favors around now, but she is Not Doing Great.

Also makes the favors have a different undercurrent of tension to them. Sam is wrestling with guilt about the hair (and trying hard to ignore the fact that Dream is now covered in scars) and Dream is trying hard to Perform Pretty, anxious that Sam will stop the favors because she doesn't look like how she likes.

Everything Is Fine.

Punz ends up holding Dream and rocking her a lot post prison. Dream is briefly stuck in a cycle of hating what she looks like and hating herself for caring about what she looks like.

When the escape happens, Punz sees Dream's hair destroyed and Dream is forced to stop and get a warm jacket and scarf and is forced into Comfy Time (Dream is not pleased).

Techno breaks Dream out, lets Dream fuck off wherever, Dream goes back to Punz, and Punz sees the state of Dream's hair and instantly knows somethings wrong. She doesn't manage to get much out of Dream while she's trying to go get the Axe of Peace back, but she does demand Dream come see her after.

When they meet and Punz questions her about her hair, Dream has a mild meltdown, raging about how her hair didn't matter and it was fine and is that all that matters to Punz? And Punz, who is just trying their best, ends up hugging her and they sit on the floor while Dream cries.

This Is Very Fine.

Dream gets cleaned up and bandaged and taken care of, and Punz has decided that Sam and Quackity will die. First one doesn't end up happening, but like, one out of two is still pretty good.

When they do end up becoming a trio with Sam, the eventual talk about the hair is. Interesting. And by that I mean Sam decides she isn't up for sex once, and Dream kind of lurches and and goes off to the bathroom to have a very quiet anxiety attack (Sam doesn't want to have sex with her Sam doesn't want her because she isn't pretty anymore her hair is gone she's different now-)

And Sam panics because Dream very abruptly left looking upset, and when Dream doesn't answer she calls she breaks in and flounders a bit before loafing on top of Dream and purring to try to calm her down.

-

"I'm not going to be pretty again"

"What?" Sam looked down at her, confused.

"My hairs gone. Its not coming back," Dream informed her. Sam was not allowed to wrap her arms around her, but she pressed herself a little closer. "You ruined it."

"I didn't," Sam protested instantly, "Quackity did-"

"You did it," Dream stressed, "You let her in. And now its gone. You're not getting it back. So why don't you just leave."

Dream curled up tighter into a ball in the tub. Where was Punz? Punz was always good at making Sam leave.

Sam hesitated. Her ears drooped. "I don't want to leave you."

"You heard what I said."

"Yes, but… I don't… you're very pretty." Sam mumbled, face heating up. "I can call you pretty more often, if you want."

Dream felt a little numb.

"What," she croaked, or she thought she did. She didn't seem to fully exist in her body at the moment. "was the point of all this? You let Quackity torture me for months without a word, but the minute I lose my hair, you act like its a death sentence. You cared more about how I looked than you did about me. And now you're acting like it never happened."

Dream looked up at the light on the ceiling. It hurt to stare at, but she didn't care. "Get off your idiot train and go bother someone else. I'm sure being a loser got you a bunch of loser friends to hang out with."

For a long time, it was silent. Dream continued to stare at the light, never glancing in Sam's direction. There was no shuffle of creeper paws, no shutting of the door, no indignant huff. Just silence.

Finally, in a very small voice, Sam said, "I'm sorry."

Dream didn't respond.

"I liked your hair. It was, you." Sam shifted, trying to find the words. She struggled for a moment, before wilting. "When it was gone, it felt. Wrong. You're supposed to be you."

Dream closed her eyes. The light hurt too much.

"I should have done a lot of things different. Like, like letting Quackity in. Or panicking over your hair. Or… all of it."

Sam swallowed. "Even if I don't have the right to say it, I still think you're pretty. Even without your hair, you look really nice. Like, sunlight. Or a butterfly."

Dream snorted wetly. "Butterflies are symmetrical. I'm not like that."

"But when they're in a garden," Sam insisted, "and you're looking at all the flowers, and they look nice, but you stare at the butterfly when it flies by, and you don't care about any of the flowers. You're looking at how pretty the butterfly is. You're like that."

Dream laughed softly, tasting salt in her mouth. "I don't know what that means."

Sam perked up. Her tail wagged. "Your laugh is pretty, too. Everything about you is pretty. It makes everyone want to look at you all the time. I-"

Sam cut herself off, cheeks pink. Dream turned her head in curiosity. "What?"

She stuttered, paws shuffling. "I like looking at you. When you're here. I like you."

Tension seeped slowly out of Dream's figure, draining her of any energy she had left over. Good. This was good. Sam wasn't leaving her over her hair, and Sam apologized. This was good. Everything was-

"Dream?" Sam asked in concern. Dream felt a wayward tear slide down the bridge of her nose.

"I'm tired." Her eyelids drooped at the realization. "If you bring me to the bed, you can sleep with me."

She felt Sam pick her up with surprising gentleness, cradling her to her chest. A warm breath fell against her torn ear.

"If you want that." Sam murmured.

Dream barely registered them leaving the bathroom. As soon as her body hit the sheets, she melted into its softness. The past hour had been so much, but she would sleep it off and things would make more sense.

Fluffy paw pads brushed at her cheeks. "You're crying, Dream."

"Mm."

A warm body pressed into hers and began to purr.

-

Punz shows up with Dreams meds or something like 30 minutes later, and nearly murders Sam. She's stopped by Dream, who asks for sleepy cuddles, and then they're forced to hold off on murdering Sam until they can find another reason to stab her.

[ladygoofball]

Paladins and Oaths in BG3

SO I've been writing a fic about a Paladin who is the chosen of an unnamed god and WEEPING at how the god I did choose for them fits so beautifully with Gale's whole character arc of rebirth and coming back to life after isolation by falling in love (either platonically or romantically he always allows himself to be completely changed by the player character).

More babble about some headcannons for the inner workings of how Oaths work and Paladins within Gale's romance arc in BG3 under the cut

SO the God that I have chosen for my Paladin to worship is OSIRIS who exists in the broader DnD pantheon (specifically eastern Faerun). He is the God of Death, God of Nature, and God of Life and ALL of those happen to fall under the Oath of the Ancients route in BG3. To a scary degree, even though he is not mentioned anywhere in the game as far as I have seen (my sources are not that wide, I've only played through the story 100% one time on my PS5 and I'm playing through again with a Paladin to see how the fighting mechanics work as metaphors for being inspired divinely and trying to understand what the Oathbreaker is supposed to do in canon and not having purchased the art book so I have not seen if that was something they chose to focus on). It's sent me on a whole spiral into his lore and how he would absolutely canonically choose a Sun Elf to act as his sword in the world while he rests up and tries to take over the role as God of Death after the Dead Three are defeated. I've been on fire drawing all of the fun visual themes and secrets alluding to a godly presence in a comic about this.

My personal headcannon for Oaths in BG3 are that they act as intermediaries to place Initiate paladins into a Church. There is a period of intense isolation and study once you have sworn one of the available oaths, (Order of the Ancients, Order of Vengance, etc.) and after you have submitted an essay to an elder counsel you are allowed to act as an Initiate to the Order. No paladin is expected to stay in service to the Order forever, they're only supposed to be there while they find a Church that is right for them in theory.

Order of the Ancients, however, just has a thing for keeping some of their Paladins in service to the order. One could argue that the Oathbreaker needs to be stricter to Initates to make sure they don't embarrass the Order while they are interviewing different Churches, and that is why the cost of reconnecting someone to their healing magic goes up every time the Oath is broken, regardless of the offense until you reach a Church, then the punishment's cost is determined by the Church the Paladin serves. One could also argue that it would be against an Order's best interest to keep a certain number of initiates in their service so they don't lose out on a very steady stream of income.

How this ties in to the Tav of this world:

Luana Tanar'ri is a 186 year old sun elf, and she has been in service to the order for her entire waking memory as an adult (Elves rename themselves when they turn 100, and she does not remember renaming herself but she does remember entering Isolation and telling people how old she is). She mirrors the story Astarion tells us about the Gods in Baldur's Gate refusing to come to the aide of mortals. She tries so hard to keep herself in line when she is tadpoled so she doesn't make the entire camp pay the Oathbreaker to keep her useful as a healer. She goes out of her way to help other people to keep the Gods favor, even though she is pretty sure she must have done something really horrible to deserve to be in this whole mess in the first place.

As a healer, she has always been put as close to the battlefield as possible. She can't see someone hurt without offering them a healing hand. Her healing takes on a vision of what anchors the recipient to their lives, a way for Osiris to judge if this soul is worthy of being in his service when he regains power but the Order of the Ancients do not know that when Luana has been abducted and thrust into the Tav role in this story. They just need to use her for the pretty face she brings to their Order, a PR stunt doll and an income stream. After all this time, she has exhausted every possible option for a newer more senior position Luana could take in the Order to try to move out of the Initiate role. Her story starts the day she quits her job, which happens to be 48 hours before the nautiloid will come cruising through Baldur's Gate. She is almost 100% positive that if she stops doing good deeds for a single moment the Oathbreaker will catch up to her. She needs to make herself loved and adored by her companions, so they don't kick her to the curb once they get the bill for her latest crimes against the Order.

Of all the companions that she finds in camp, Gale offers the nicest distraction for her: a constant stream of information about the world they are exploring around them. She was always the one asked to clear out a temple and compile the loot to ship off to academics to study and categorized and she had never had the opportunity to be able to hear one of them work. It was too dangerous for their minds to be used for something as silly as battle strategy, but since he's clearly not fought anyone or anything before this adventure she tries to help him out as best as she can. She relies on her paladin tank combat training to try to clear paths for him, but she is confused when he is not relieved that someone else took care of it for him but seems to be incredibly distraught over the idea of her throwing herself into the fray and getting hurt. Even more confused when she finds herself spending extra time making sure the things she brings back to camp are up to Gale's standards as the de-facto Chef in camp and she is disappointed when he is not the one running the kitchen that night.

[ohthehypocrisy]

Implementing a Type Chart in Pokemon Unite (And how it might just save the game from Mega Mewtwo X & Y)

It has been a long two years since Pokemon Unite released, and in that time, over 30 more pokemon have been added into the game. Of particular note is a certain Legendary that seem to be developing a bit of infamy.

Now, don't get me wrong, the game is still fun. I won't disagree that Mewtwo's impact on the game so far has been very...centralizing all things considered. But it hasn't stopped me from booting up the game and queuing up for a couple of Ranked Matches. In fact, I've been sitting in Masters Rank for a while now, and I can say that Mewtwo is somewhat manageable now than it was a few weeks ago.

That said, I do recognize that something has to be done about this Legendary leveling up and level the battlefield with its raw psychic power. It's easy enough to say 'nerf this thing into the ground', but I don't disagree with the rhetoric that Legendary pokemon are supposed to be super powerful. I just think that, if a Legendary Pokemon is meant to be super powerful on purpose, then it should be just as powerful as the player can skillfully control it. I said it before with Zacian, but a Legendary pokemon can be overpowered if it's balanced out by harsh cooldowns or high skill ceilings.

But as it stands, Mewtwo is kind of ruining the game a bit. So what's the solution? Well, I have a proposition for you guys...

We bring back this bad boy and implement it into the game.

-

Type, Nullified

Before Pokemon Unite was released, one of the first critical takes about the game was the lack of a Type Chart being implemented. While the core gameplay of Pokemon battles is all about exploiting weaknesses to come out victorious, Pokemon Unite favored steady level grinding and scoring points accrued from said level grinding. All hits dealt and received were expected to deal normal damage, with the exception of buffs and debuffs being taken into account.

There's also the fact that, well, when the game came out, there were only 20 available Unite Licenses.

Since each pokemon has 4 possible move combinations, that means there were a total of 100 possible loadouts, or 40 different ways a standard match could go. Even so, some pokemon would have been worse off with a Type Chart implemented, like Machamp, who can only have Fighting Type Moves learned, or Charizard, who has 4 Fire Type Moves it can end a game with, or even Pikachu, whose 4 Electric Type attacks would've done nothing to Garchomp.

Ah, we're getting ahead of ourselves. Let's figure out exactly how a Type Chart could work in Pokemon Unite first.

It's Super Effective! (your mileage may vary...)

In the mainline games, a Super Effective hit results in an attack dealing double the damage, or 2x multiplied. If a hit was resisted though, the damage received would be halved, or deal 0.5x damage. Now, that's not to say that double damage guarantees a KO every time, or that a resisted hit cannot ever KO. There are always extra factors in play, such as which attacking stat or defending stat is used in the calculation, or the difference in Level. That said, assuming the levels are equal and both players have optimized there pokemon's training, Super Effective hits will always make for a quick battle.

There's also the fact that most moves grant a bonus effect on the off chance, regardless of how effectively the move deals damage (with the exception of a move failing to deal damage). For example, nearly all Fire Type moves in the main games have a chance to inflict a Burn, even if it's used against Types that would resist the attack, like Water or Dragon. Of course, many Types are known not just for their resistances but also their immunity to certain status effects, but in Pokemon Unite, since all moves are aimed manually, there has to be some reward for actually hitting the enemy. Therefore, implementing a Type Chart means we'd have to go as far as factoring in the effectiveness of damage dealt, not necessarily the effectiveness of the move.

Although, perhaps we should modify the effectiveness of the bonus effects of moves in Pokemon Unite. In almost every interaction, a good move is made by the kind of hindrance it can deal, and for how long it affects them, as debilitating an enemy can make it easier to KO them. While it's not one-to-one, the two effects are similar in execution, though Pokemon Unite seems to like making every move grant a guaranteed effect. It's understandable though, as actually landing the attack is up to you, the player, and is often where skill matters in bouts between battlers.

While trainers can choose from a wide variety of attacks to teach their pokemon, Pokemon Unite Trainers are stuck with the sanctioned moves the committee allows their pokemon to use in each battle. Because of this, if a Type Chart were to be implemented, some movesets would have to be redone altogether, just so that Machamp would actually be able to hit Gengar or Sableye. Or, perhaps not.

See, there's been a keyword in the mainline games since the very first ones dropped in Pokemon Red and Blue, and that being the term 'Super Effective!'. By definition, it means that a move is effecting the enemy more than normal, by a super amount, so if we were to follow that logic, we can assume the following changes would take place with a Type Chart implemented.

Super Effective attacks deal more damage and inflict stronger effects on the enemy.

Normal Effective attacks deal normal damage and the effects inflicted on the enemy are unchanged.

Not Very Effective attacks deal reduced damage and inflict weaker effects on the enemy.

Ineffective attacks deals drastically reduced damage and inflict no effects on the enemy.

While Super Effective attacks can improve some pokemon's ability to fight opposing pokemon one-on-one, Not Very Effective attacks limit a pokemon's ability to handle specific matchups. Let's go back to that Machamp example.

All of Machamp's possible moves are Fighting Types, so already, that means you can only deal Ineffective damage to Ghost Types. That means Dynamic Punch will fail to Stun every time and Submission will not grab and piledrive enemies on hit. While this drastically reduces Machamp's ability to fight Ghost Types like Trevenant and Aegislash, this does mean we can buff his stats like crazy to compensate for this weakness. Since Not Very Effective damage will still Stun and Grapple enemies on hit, the extra effects and stat gains are a great compromise. And besides, not being able to hit Ghosts doesn't have to be a bad thing. I mean, that's why you've got a team to help you out, right? If you've got a problem with Ghosts, maybe snuff them out with a wave of darkness instead.

3 out of Absol's 4 moves are Dark Type moves, meaning you will always have a Dark Type attack you can use to 'Absol'-utely destroy those Ghost types that Machamp can't handle. Since you'll be doing Super Effective damage, let's look at what that means for the Ghost Types on the receiving end.

While both Night Slash and Pursuit threaten to deal double damage, they don't inflict any extra effects on the enemy on hit. 'Super Effective' means it increases the effects inflicted on the enemy, not just damage, so if you're looking to take advantage of the Type Chart in this way, you'd better go with Sucker Punch over Psycho Cut, as Sucker Punch Stuns and Shoves when it counters an attack. If this is used on a Ghost Type, the damage dealt is doubled, but the Shove and Stun effect are also increased, most likely ending with Absol KO'ing the Ghost Type you target with the follow-up Night Slash or Pursuit.

Now, perhaps Ghost Types could counter with a Machamp of their own, but then the game revolves around keeping the Machamp around to protect the Ghosts from Absol and the opposing team has to make an opening by perhaps sending in a Psychic Type or a Fairy Type to take care of the Machamp. Then team structures start to revolve around coordination and lining up the correct pokemon to create openings in the opposing team's composition and-

Oh. And that's how you make a game balanced, by creating imperfect balance. By having multiple Types available and constantly being added into the game, this makes it so that no team structure is ever the perfect one, as pokemon must be constantly swapped in and out to challenge the constantly shifting meta. You know, this is how the mainline games do this as well.

A Plus One to Proficiency

Now, there is the question as to why pokemon like Machamp and Pikachu are stuck with moves of the same Type as the pokemon themselves, and that's because of something called the Same Type Attack Bonus, or STAB for short.

In the pokemon games, a move can be expected to deal normal damage if it is expected to not have its effectiveness changed, according to the Type Chart. For example, a Pikachu's Shock Wave will deal the same amount of damage to a Dark Type as a Normal Type's Shock Wave attack. Except, it won't, because Shock Wave is an Electric Type Attack, same typing as Pikachu. Because of its relative mastery over the electric element, Pikachu deals an extra bit of damage when using Shock Wave. This phenomenon is explained as an Attack Bonus as a result of the move being the Same Type as the attacker.

As a result of this, you'll almost never see a competitively trained pokemon without an attacking move of the same type as itself, as the pokemon aims to deal as much damage as possible, regardless of the different possible combination of pokemon it can be matched up against. In Pokemon Unite, this proficiency in extra damage is why many pokemon have their movesets loaded with STAB moves.

Well, not all of them.

Mew is an outlier as a playable pokemon in that it has 9 possible move combinations it can choose from, and it can switch them around as often as it wants mid battle. While that's a great ability, none of its usable moves deal STAB damage.

Okay, well, it can use Light Screen and Agility to great effect, which are also Psychic Type moves. But they do not deal Psychic Type damage, is what I'm trying to say. This Jack-Of-All-Trades aspect is a big part of Mew's character, and I'm glad to say that it survives the implementation of the Type Chart.

Anyway, not being able to deal Psychic Type damage might be a greater draw than what other trainers might be comfortable with, but being able to switch them out whenever you want makes Mew very well prepared to fight whatever team composition it runs into. It specializes in dealing damage, but suffers a bit when it has to take damage in return. Still, Water, Grass, and Electric Type Attacks guarantee a Super Effective hit on 5 different Types altogether, only dealing Not Very Effective damage against opposing Grass and Dragon Types, so it's still balanced out.

For less extreme examples, there are a few pokemon in Unite that can have a moveset without STAB moves. For one, Lucario can choose to run Extreme Speed and Bone Rush, a Normal and Ground Type attack as opposed to the Fighting Type coverage of either Power-Up Punch or Close Combat. Normal hits everything effectively except for Ghost, Rock and Steel, which Bone Rush can deal with, hitting the latter two Super Effectively. No STAB, but we aren't implementing that in the game.

There's also Goodra, who can only have Dragon Pulse as a STAB. It hits other Dragons Super Effectively and can deal some serious Burst Healing, but then you lose out on Muddy Water and it's ability to Super Effectively reduce the damage opposing Rock, Ground, and Fire Types deal. Power Whip can Super Effectively pull in opposing Rock, Ground, and Water Types, but will be less effective at pulling in opposing Grass, Fire, Dragon, and other such types with the Pull Effect. Meanwhile, Acid Spray can Super Effectively lower the movement speed of opposing Grass and Fairy Types, but will do nothing to Steel Types other than deal some slight damage.

The point of STAB as a concept in Pokemon Unite is that a playable pokemon can be expected to deal damage utilizing its Typing when fought in the game. For instance, you know that, whenever you run into an opposing Espeon or Glaceon, you can always expect them to deal Psychic or Ice Type damage respectively, and you can decide whether or not to engage the enemy depending on the resistances your own Pokemon has against them.

Speaking of which...

Resistant to Change

Being able to hit enemies super effectively in Pokemon Unite would result in players ending fights very quickly with well timed shots and attacks, but the opposite is also true, in that resistances can cause a fight to drag on. While a Super Effective hit can end fights, a resisted hit, or a Not Very Effective attack, can reduce the damage received and also limit the effectiveness of hindrances or bonus effects inflicted by those moves.

For example, Blastoise has two annoying moves in Surf and Hydro Pump, both of which deal high damage and inflict a painful Stun. Since no Type is immune to Water attacks, these moves will always inflict a hindrance. But Water is resisted by Grass, Dragon, and opposing Water Types, of which there are a lot in the game. Reducing the effectiveness of Blastoise's Surf and Hydro Pump results in a weaker push and less damage dealt, drastically reducing its effectiveness as a Defender. Of course, this is all matchup dependent, as not every game will have a squad of Water, Grass, or Dragon types matched up against you, but even if it did happen, you have teammates to back you up, and your moves will still work against them, just not well.

There are also pokemon in the roster with quadruple resistances to certain attack Types, like Gengar and Charizard both fiercely resisting Bug Type attacks. While the main games have these pokemon take drastically reduced damage, in Pokemon Unite it would register the same as a Not Very Effective attack. I mean, we could make it so that both pokemon take pathetically low damage from Crustle's X-Scissor or Buzzwole's Leech Life, but that's what Type Immunity is for. I'm not too sure about this to be honest, maybe a quad resist could function like an Ineffective Attack, as being able to reject these moves entirely can shut down specific move combinations.

Speaking of which, Immunities in Pokemon Unite would function as a drastically weakened version of the move. I don't like the idea of an enemy pokemon getting away for free without taking any damage just because they were a Ghost or Ground Type, so it's better that the damage received would be reduced by a huge margin. I do like the idea of an Ineffective Attack failing to inflict a hindrance on the enemy, as the game has a bit of a problem with putting Stuns on all moves and such. While this would mean that Zeraora and Pikachu can still deal damage to opposing Garchomp or Mamoswine, their moves become unable to Stun or Slow them down, flipping the fight on its head and forcing the zappy cat and rat to make a run for it.

Gengar would enjoy not being blown back by Blissey's Egg Bomb or Machamp's Dynamic Punch, allowing it to make risky dives into the opposing team a lot safer for itself. Likewise, Blissey, Snorlax, and even Greedent would love to not get bogged down by all the Ghost Type attacks being thrown out, avoiding the trapping effects of Decidueye's Spirit Shackle or the Stunning blows of Hoopa's Phantom Force. And lastly, Steel Types, in addition to their loads of resistances, can enjoy not being inflicted with a passive damage-over-time hindrance by Gengar's or Venusaur's Sludge Bomb, making pokemon like Aegislash, Duraludon, or even Lucario a lot more difficult to wear down.

Putting Down the Perfect Pokemon

So with all this in mind, how exactly would a Type Chart help Pokemon Unite topple the mighty Mewtwo X and Y?

Well, the easiest answer would be to throw Dark Types and Dark Type Moves at the thing, of which there are a lot in Pokemon Unite right now.

Since Super Effective Attacks would deal more damage and agitate the hindrances inflicted on Mewtwo, Dark Type moves are a solid answer to the creature. Umbreon's Foul Play Stuns and Shoves enemies on hit, allowing it to deal heavy damage to Mewtwo, especially the X variation. Snarl also punishes Mewtwo for staying too close, forcing Mewtwo to run away and perhaps disengage from the fight.

Tyranitar is also a strong contender for a Mewtwo counter, though it would need to run Dark Pulse if it sees a Mewtwo on the loading screen. Even so, Ancient Power or Sand Tomb can easily help Tyranitar maintain close fighting distance against opposing Mewtwo, allowing it to fire off Dark Pulses repeatedly, Stunning it over and over until it goes down.

Absol, while not nearly as bulky as the other two Dark Types here, could also potentially one-hit-KO Mewtwo with its Dark Type Moves if it lands the first hit. With a Super Effective Night Slash dealing a critical hit, Mewtwo can get cleaved in half before the enemy could even blink.

And even then, Dark Types have the advantage thanks to their natural immunity to Psychic Type Moves. In Pokemon Unite, this translates to drastically reduced damage and nullifying the hindrances and debuffs inflicted on them by Psychic Type Moves. When used by Mewtwo, this means that its Future Sight will neither Push nor Pull Dark Types, and its Psystrike, while it would still deal damage, will not Throw enemies with the final hit, forcing Mewtwo to use it to run away. Even the frail Absol can use these immunities to its advantage, allowing it to fight Mewtwo 1-on-1, provided the opposing Mewtwo has lost quite a bit of HP.

Mewtwo is also vulnerable to Bug and Ghost Type attacks, though these moves are surprisingly sparse in the game at the moment. Buzzwole can deal more damage with Leech Life, but it is also part Fighting and is much more likely to get KO'd before it can even touch Mewtwo. Gengar has a similar issue, being able to deal damage Super Effectively with Shadow Ball, but can also be damaged Super Effectively in turn thanks to being part Poison. The only Pokemon that can deal Super Effective damage to Mewtwo reliably would be Chandelure with its Poltergeist Attack, Dragapult with Shadow Ball, and Crustle with X-Scissor, and they're not exactly best suited for long fights. Really, only Aegislash running Shadow Claw can put down a Mewtwo by muscling through its Not Very Effective moves through its Steel Typing. Everyone else has to get by with resistances.

Speaking of which, while Mewtwo could struggle against Dark Types, the rest of the roster gains a much stronger match-up against the experiment gone wrong. Psychic Type Attacks are resisted by Steel and opposing Psychic Types, whereas Fighting and Poison Types are hit Super Effectively. Slowbro, Mr. Mime, Gardevoir, Aegislash, Hoopa, Duraludon, Espeon, Delphox, Mew, Scizor, and Zacian all resist Psychic Type attacks, meaning Mewtwo cannot hurt these pokemon as much as it can hurt other Types.

On the other side of the coin, Machamp, Venusaur, Buzzwole, and Urshifu Rapid Strike all receive Super Effective damage from Mewtwo's moves, which kinda sucks, but it's only 3 and a half out of 52 pokemon that get a worse match-up from the Type Chart. This makes a net positive for the meta, as Mewtwo loses out on the ability to reliably and utterly destroy every single Pokemon it runs into in each game.

Mewtwo itself gains a resistance to Fighting and opposing Psychic Type moves as well, but since each round starts with a preview of the opposing team, your enemies are likely to pick Super Effective moves to deal with you if they can help it.

But remember, a Super Effective move deals Super damage, but only if you can actually hit the enemy. Being able to body Mewtwo with Super Effective moves all depends on your ability to aim true, as well as being able to avoid opposing Super Effective hits coming your way. Relying on extra damage to win your fights for you is a surefire way to get humbled by opposing Mewtwo, so you have to pay attention to the battle, just like an actual Pokemon Battle.

Always Room For One More

At the very beginning of the game, Pokemon Unite lacked a Type Chart, which was one of its main criticisms before it was released. However, now I understand why they chose not to implement anything like the sort, as the small roster of available pokemon meant that some interactions would have been unwinnable, like Gengar vs Machamp or Pikachu vs Garchomp. Even with a team by your side, not being able to reliably fight one-fifth of the opposing team could make a pokemon out to be dead weight in certain metas.

But with over 50 pokemon in the roster now and with more on the way, I think now is the best time to put in a Type Chart into the game, especially as a way to deal with Mewtwo and whatever overpowered pokemon they add into the game next. We can expect more regular pokemon to join the roster later down the line, each with a wide variety of moves to choose from. They can even be defined by their choice in STAB moves or none at all, carving out a niche for themselves the moment they get put in the game.

Not only that, a lot of Types are underrepresented in the game at the moment, such as Rock, Poison, and Electric, having only two Pokemon each in the roster at the moment. They could do what they did with Crustle and add in a Pokemon of both types to solve the issue, but that'd still leave one Type behind with little representation.

Now, don't get me wrong, I love all the pokemon they've been adding to the game, but they could've fixed this at any point, you know? Instead of Blaziken we could've gotten Ampharos, or Bellibolt, or even Alolan Raichu before we got the fire chicken. I'd even go so far as to say we could've done with a Fossil Pokemon like Tyranitar or Aerodactyl before getting Mimikyu, you know, just to add some variety to the Type Chart or something.

But I'm digressing now, and I think it's time I wrapped up this post. What do you guys think about putting in a Type Chart in Pokemon Unite? Let me know in the comments.

Until Next Time.

[silversiren1101]

Time for some Pathfinder Lore, because Hellknights have a very interesting and not-entirely unique relationship with 'necromancy' and the undead!

So, Hellknights just in general are more familiar with necromancy because they're just a bit more likely to turn into undead themselves entirely naturally. With knights that are so duty and mission driven above all else, very very likely to die in death pursuing such a thing, Hellknights rising from the dead to continue their mission (or in attempt to) is seen as a strength of spirit thing for them. This isn't entirely unique to them, though! Consider a Gorumite who refuses to die, or who rises from death to keep on fighting just for the sake of fighting! Such strength in belief and conviction and purpose, of course that's going to be looked upon with respect/admiration. Or, the siabrae! Upholding your duty/beliefs even past death, of course they (and many other groups in Golarion) are going to look upon that with favor.

The key part is the conviction and purpose bit: commitment to what they stood for in life. For a Gorumite, that's just fighting - a mindless or just completely evil battlefield spirit of a Gorumite still tracks... not so much for a risen Hellknight of any kind.

This leads me to the only unique Hellknight undead type we know of: there's a rather interesting creature in a Pathfinder 2e AP you find in a Hellknight citadel crypt called the Hellcrown. It reanimates around the helmet of an evil Hellknight that was decapitated (usually but not always). Very specific I know, lol.

The life of a Hellknight is bloody, brutal, and often short. Many who perish in service to a Hellknight order are glad to rest after having served their masters so faithfully, but others seek to continue their work even in death. When a Hellknight is decapitated, the ghostly undead known as a hellcrown is an occasional result. Consumed by the desire to bring about order by inflicting cruelty, hellcrowns haunt battlefields and abandoned castles, slaying all they encounter. A strange fusion of spirit and steel, a hellcrown has no corporeal form by itself, but instead inhabits the helmet it so proudly wore in life. Dangling from the helmet like a shroud is a shadow of the former Hellknight’s spine, adding to the creature’s terrifyingly gruesome appearance. Hellknights regard hellcrowns with a mixture of disgust and respect, considering the individuals who transform into these floating undead to have been resolute in purpose but weak in body.

A hellcrown usually manifests hours or longer after its body’s death, and only when its body is unattended; this might even take days if the Hellknight perished in a major battle. Typically, no recognizable fragment of the Hellknight’s former personality survives the grisly transformation into a hellcrown, but in rare and particularly tragic cases a hellcrown might remember its life and hold grudges against those it views as the cause of its death. Regardless of whether they retain memories of their lives or have lost all former sense of self, hellcrowns linger around the site of their death, reminding all they encounter of the merciless principles of their order.

The main takeaway from this is that Hellknights don't see them as perversions are things of disgust because they're undead, but because they are weak. These are level 1 undead creatures that can't even maintain a corporeal form, but their strength in conviction and purpose at least makes them be seen with a "he's got the right spirit" mentality.

A sufficiently powerful Hellknight would rise as a Graveknight, and they kind of... not exactly often, but actually do kind of often (lol) do in the grand scheme of things. Hellknights have a storied history with graveknights and liches among their ranks because. So long as the undead maintains their beliefs and drive and abilities, it's the ultimate example of duty at all costs, and even transcending what should be 'the final barrier'. It's not like it's a widespread accepted thing, and I would say it's a contentious thing even among their own ranks where most undead would be met with disgust for being, well, undead, but respect for their undying resolve. Others would be fully approving, especially depending on the Order (looking at you Order of the Gate with your secret lich). Others would be completely disapproving; consider an Iomedaen Hellknight or just Order of the Pyre in general.

I also want to address in the same location the Hellcrowns are encountered, the previous Hellknight generation that occupied the citadel also warded the crypts with a rune that would animate the corpses in there to attack anyone not wearing Hellknight armor or regalia. You can identify the nature of the rune with the following text:

the ward caused several bodies in the crypt to animate as undead guardians in response to an attempt by someone to use necromancy to despoil the dead--a sort of necromantic "fight fire with fire" tactic. A successful Society check confirms some Hellknight orders used this practice in the early days but most have long since abandoned it.

So, it's fallen out of favor. The Hellknight NPC that also comes with you is hesitant to fight the undead since they won't fight him (he's wearing HK armor), and he does not want to despoil the remains of his fallen brothers in arms who have been brought back up against their will! (So NOT a compulsion of spirit by strength of duty situation!)

Regardless, the Orders have a long history with the undead but particularly graveknights. You can find out more about by reading Hellknight by Liane Merciel, featuring the Order of the Crux where the worst possible case of a strength in conviction meets strength in body in Hellknight graveknights: [TLDR imagine being SO evil and heinous in your beliefs and prejudice that the Order of the Scourge teams up with paladins of Iomedae AND House Thrune to purge your entire order from history and existence, but you are SO EVIL and SO CONVINCED in what you believe in you just come right back anyway as a forever Graveknight to keep being awful].

...

So, is Regill that unusual in his statements here? Honestly, not entirely. More good-aligned HKs would think him a bit on the extreme side but also understand the sentiment, especially in the Worldwound situation where you're bleeding soldiers and bodies. Having 'recyclable' soldiers who will keep fighting the good fight even after their life gives out? That's fantastic from an entirely utilitarian standpoint. Morally? Well if you care about that sort of thing... it's icky... but can we really care about ickiness when if we fail demons will overrun the world?

There would be many hot debates on this and philosophical discussions, and you wouldn't get entirely the same answer from any HK but you would get the shared understanding of why, especially when Hellknights just have an understanding that they're a bit more likely to reanimate entirely of their own volition should they go down than others. If Hellknights could consistently create graveknights from their strongest, they would.

Any other type of undead? That depends, are they still loyal?

Hence why he dislikes ghouls and bodaks and their ilk. If other undead come back and are still unified in their purpose (like graveknights and siabrae), then ghouls are doubly guilty of treason because they retain their memories and STILL turn to the other side! In his mind, at least. It's a bit easier to see the train of thought when you consider the Hellknight <--> Undeath relationship at large.

And, are they still useful?

There's a difference between a meatshield of living soldiers and dead ones: the dead ones are already dead. I think a lot of people forget that Regill does consider the life of his men quite often, and is constantly balancing that victory/sacrifice threshold as a leader himself. It appears in several of his companion/party camp banter and his general opinion towards the machine in Blackwater (he dislikes it for the utter mindlessness it imposes on the victims). Dead soldiers though? Are already lost, you don't have to worry about preserving their lives or minds. To him, that's a net gain. You're not purposefully turning alive soldiers into the undead for this, you're gaining resources from something already lost, so of course it's a great idea to him. It's a net gain from what would otherwise be a complete debilitating net loss.

regill you're insane and i love you

[theotheroccassionalfanficwriter]

Amidst the Snow Covered Mountains

Summary: You had always believed that after the death of your lover, you would forever wear your red robes as penance for a promise you failed to keep. Your heart had died with him and your time would forever remain frozen. And then Tartaglia arrived in your life, like a sun that melted the snow.

Rating: G

A/N: Heavily inspired by Mo Dao Zu Shi and Tian Guan Ci Fu.

The cold air of Snezhnaya was colder than the air atop the mountain peaks in Jueyun Karst. But the years you’ve spent in service of the Fatui made you acclimated to the cold air that nipped at your nose. Your clothes, a fusion of Snezhnaya and Liyue fashion, were magically enhanced to keep your body in perfect temperature regardless of climate. The fox fur that lined the hems of your sleeves and robes added a regal air to your already noble nature. It made you more aloof and unapproachable compared to the other Harbingers, adding upon your age that was closer to the Tsaritsa’s, not even most of your fellow Harbingers dared to speak informally with you.

Of course, you weren’t spared from the scheming and backstabbing but they were more likely to do it politely or without any crassness. The exception to all of this was Tartaglia, the newly inducted 12th Harbinger. He was a human born to be a warrior, the battlefield was his home and you made no secret of your admiration for his skills.

It was perhaps the reason why he often followed you around like a tail, not that you cared, the human was talkative and yet he was undeniably a genius in fighting. He was also frustratingly obsessed with fighting you despite never winning in any spar, though you appreciated his offers, he brought no challenge to you.

“...Tartaglia, don’t you have to drill your men?” You asked him, your robes immaculate while his were dirtied from the ground and your pyro vision.

Your forehead ribbon fluttered in the cold wind as you remained standing in front of Tartaglia’s collapsed body.

“Columbina,” He panted “at this point you should be offering to help me stand up!”

You couldn’t help the small smile on your lips at hearing him whine. 

“Wait! Did you just smile?”

You ignored his question in favor of walking away, “Stand up, It’s dinner time.”

“Wait for me! Archons, why are you so keen on keeping a regular schedule!” Tartaglia whined as he got up and ran after you, arms slung on your shoulder as both of you walked through Snezhnaya’s eternal winter.

Snezhnaya was colder than the place you used to call home but it with Tartaglia beside you, chattering senselessly in your ear, warmed you better than Fú Shě’s presence.

--

Your existence as an Adeptus, a former Yaksha, was never a secret among the Fatui. It was merely something that no one mentioned to your face, it was acknowledged but never talked about. It meant that Tartaglia asking you about it had thrown you off guard. Strong enough that your usual impassive face had shown emotion.

“Do they discriminate against you for being a Yaksha?!” Tartaglia asked, indignant over an imagined slight.

Something warmth unfurls in your chest but you are quick to dismiss it in favor of grabbing Tartaglia’s collar and stopping him from marching out of your home and into the Palace.

“No. I was just surprised that you’d ask about my past” You replied, voice deceptively calm.

Once Tartaglia returned to his seat, you did the same and took a sip from your honey lemon tea. It had been years since you last thought of your past, the home you left behind and the everything you once held dear. The steam of the tea curls around in the air, the soft muffled sounds of the city filling the silent room of your living area.

You take another sip and began telling your story, “ I used to be part of a Yaksha clan, we were contracted to Rex Lapis for the purpose of quelling the lingering hatred of Liyue’s fallen gods…”

“I was the younger sibling of one of the Foremost Yaksha, thus there were expectations of me rising up to his prestige,” You smiled fondly at the memories, unaware of the sadness that lingered in your eyes “Despite that neither I nor my brother felt any bitterness towards each other. Though I am in his shadows, I know my own worth. My talent lies not in slaughter but in helping them gain peace.”

“As a Yaksha, I travelled around Liyue, village to village, quelling grudges upon grudges. There were times I would cross paths with other Yakshas, sometimes we fought together, sometimes each other. But all of it was for fulfilling our duty,” You took another sip of tea, exhaling as your mind easily drew up the memories you’ve hidden.

You told him, skirting around some details, about your past and how it led you to Snezhnaya. You talked and talked, offering him bits and pieces of a past that left a festering wound in your heart. It was an odd feeling, for someone like you who preferred to be silent, to be talking for so long.

But it was hard not to, not when Tartaglia looked at you with eyes that brightened at your tales, from your battles to your previous mundane life. Eventually the conversation drifted away from your past and to Liyue’s culture and traditions, you answered every question Tartaglia had. From the serious ones to the silly ones, letting him see the Liyue from your memories.

“One of your clan’s specialty was music cultivation,” You revealed to him as your hand absentmindedly fed him cookies, a muscle memory from the past “My brother played the dizi though he preferred to use a sword to fight.”

“And you?”

“A guqin.”

Tartaglia hums, voice soft and inquisitive. You wait for his question.

“Columbina, if I learn to play a dizi, would you play with me?” He asked, almost shy and it makes your heart feel something between pain and comfort.

“Mn.”

Tartaglia’s presence in your life becomes more apparent after that day. And annoyingly, it takes Pulcinella pointing it out for you to notice.

“Tartaglia hasn’t been bothering you, has he?” Pulcinella asked, voice deceptively uncaring.

You blinked at him, the only evidence of your confusion at his question. You knew that for all of Pulcinella’s claims to have no lingering affection for Tartaglia, it was a well-hidden lie. He had after all raised that child, even if it was across the battlefield.

“No.” 

You left, pace unhurried and face emotionless. The weight of Pulcinella’s stare on your back is heavy but you didn’t care for it. You had a scheduled spar with Tartaglia, and you knew he was more bearable if he got beaten up. 

Your arrival in the sparring grounds designated for you and Tartaglia is marked with the sudden silence and loss of familiarity among the lower ranks. It was amusing seeing him momentarily at loss until he turns around and smiles at you, bright and welcoming that it almost makes you falter in your steps. It has been a long time since your presence has been greeted like that.

“Have you warmed up?” You asked as your loyal left hand comes over and takes away your outer robe and gently drapes it over her arms.

Your forehead ribbon flutters in the cold wind, your sword steady in your hand as you stood a few paces away from Tartaglia. It was a clear declaration of challenge, one you would not have done if you had remained within the confines of your clan, if your brother had not left you alone.

But Tartaglia inspires change, he is a breath of fresh air, and when he smiled at you, sharp and just as excited, it makes your blood rush. Reminiscent of the bright summer days in Liyue that you spent with your clan and fellow Yakshas. Bold and carefree.

Tartaglia was an excellent fighter, one that would only grow stronger as time goes by and though he poses no challenge to you right now. He is still a force to be reckoned with, his moves does not allow you to loosen your guard. To fight in the same ease as you would when faced with other Harbingers or the monsters that littered Teyvat. Tartaglia fights with everything that he has, gives his all in every battle he finds himself in.

He is born to be a warrior and you respect that. So you do the same, you treat every spar as if you were up against old gods, curses given to life. You fight seriously and with everything you have because Tartaglia was worth it. He deserves nothing less.

In the end, it ends as it always does. Tartaglia on the ground, your sword at his throat. Your forehead ribbon, immaculate, and your robes free of dirt and yet you could tell that he had gotten stronger, from the slow and unnoticeable labored breathing of your body.

“Yield.”

Tartaglia smiles and in a split second you dodge a hydro aimed at your throat, eyes widening at his new attack that you don’t notice how the hydro dagger had loosened your forehead ribbon until it falls right before your eyes.

‘Your forehead ribbon,’ Your father explains, voice soft and firm but no less loving, ‘can only be removed by your spouse.’

What falls to the ground isn’t the familiar white of your clan’s clothes. It had been thousand of years since you last wore the white robes of your clan. 

‘You wear white all year round! There’s nothing to mourn and yet you act like there is!’ His voice, playful and whining, ‘When we get married are you going to wear white as well?’

The memories come unbidden to your mind. Unpleasant and painful. You could only stare in horror as the red ribbon dropped to the ground, it was the highest quality of silk, golden threads forming the shape of qingxin where clouds used to be. 

“Columbina?”

You leave in a flutter of red robes, forehead ribbon tightly gripped in your hand as you try to escape from the memories you’ve buried deep. You are no longer part of your clan, in name and genealogy, but still you follow its rules and tradition. It was deeply ingrained in you, down to your marrow, that to do so felt odd.Though you have gone lax as the years go by, there were still some rules you strictly adhered to. The forehead ribbon would always be one of them. Though the meaning had changed it was in essence still the same.

‘The forehead ribbons symbolizes our restraint. It is the symbol of our commitment to be free from worldly desires’ Your father explained as he tied your forehead ribbon, ‘It means that though we have forsaken all, it is them we chose not to.’

You stand, a top of Snezhnaya’s frozen mountain, inside a cave you’ve built for seclusion. There are no paths leading to it, only accessible to those like you or the Cryo Archon you worked for. You meditate on the floor, hand still tightly gripping the forehead ribbon.

You think of him, the gentle blue of his robes and his eyes that yearned for strong opponents. You think of the silent promise you made when you left your clan, struck out your name from the genealogy and bowed before Rex Lapis in acknowledgement of your actions.

White for mourning.

Red for a promise left unfulfilled.

You meditate and think of your past actions, refusing to call them wrongs, because you had only ever sought to follow your clan’s principles to the best of your heart. And to stay true to your beloved, to stand on their side, and protect them was no wrong.

--

“It’s been a long time since I heard you play your zither” she greets as she steps into your cave, easily by passing your seals, and stopping right in front of you.

You don’t stop playing the ever familiar notes of Inquiry, absent of any spiritual energy. She sat herself on the stool by the side, listening and waiting for you to finish your song. 

“Has it?” You asked as you put away your guqin, carefully setting it aside on a table specifically made for it.

“Yes. It’s been years since you last played a song on Sīzhuī.”

You tried to recollect your memories, giving her thoughts the consideration it deserved and you found that she was right. It had been years since you last played Inquiry, your last memory of playing it was the night before Tartaglia’s arrival in the Palace, under Pulcinella’s tutelage.

“It seems so” You finally answered, before moving away from your instrument and opting to serve her tea. If only to calm your shaken heart.

“Tartaglia was worried” she spoke as if recounting a normal tale, “enough that he had personally asked me for your whereabouts.”

You say nothing as you wait for the water to boil.

“He looked like he was about to cryー”

You level her a look that clearly states your disbelief and she laughs, continues her words, “or maybe terrorize the local wildlife of Snezhnaya’s mountains to find you.”

That you can agree with. Tartaglia had always been the sort to figure things out before letting his emotions run through him. You appreciated that part of him, and can rely on him when your understanding of people falls short.

“Why?”

“He found out the meaning of your forehead ribbon, and from what I’ve heard you were positively stricken with grief when it came undone.”

It wasn’t a lie but still you felt uneasy at the way she said. As if she knew the exact memory that filled your mind when you saw it come undone and yet her words felt like it had underlying meanings.

“Come out of seclusion and pacify him. He’s stalking down my hallways and I like my palace calm and quiet.” 

You looked at her, “If you truly did, you would have not accepted Tartaglia.”

She smiled at you and said nothing. A silent acknowledgement of a shared fondness for a Harbinger that wrought chaos in his wake. She leaves your cave after securing a promise of coming down after a few more days of meditation.

You watch her leave and think of how despite no longer loving her people, she still cared for them deep within the festering wounds of her heart.

--

Your return is marked with a bright day absent of the usual snowfall. Your red robes are immaculate, forehead ribbon tied perfectly tight on your head, your sword in hand. You walk the familiar halls of Zapolyarny Palace with your held high and back straight. 

Your ribbon flutters in the air as you walk, your long hair swaying in tandem. Your feet takes you to Tartaglia’s wing, to his office where you knew he would be at this time of the day. Dealing with paperwork he loathes but still does because he was a responsible leader for all of the chaos he wreaks.

You knock thrice, and step back on hearing the crash and dash of feet heading towards the door. The thought of your knock being distinct to him makes your chest feel warm.

“You’re back!” Tartaglia cries out as he throws away decorum to hug you in the middle of the hallway. Uncaring of who might hear him or see his action.

You offer no response beyond hugging him. Your hand on his back, patting his much taller form and simply letting him seek whatever it was that he found in you.

“I’m sorry” Tartaglia says, voice soft, in the privacy of his office. 

Years ago you would not have forgiven anyone who dared to do what he had done. Years ago you would have been struck with anger and grief but the years spent away from Liyue had healed your wounded heart, time had lessened the pain you felt from his departure and Tartaglia had softened you in ways you were only beginning to realize.

“No need” You told him, as he laid his head on your lap, face curled up on your stomach.

Years ago, you would not have dared to act so close to anyone in this way. Years ago, the only person who could make you show your heart easily had left. Now, it was easy to allow yourself a simple show of affection towards Tartaglia. A delicate dance of things unsaid and actions speaking louder.

The sight of Tartaglia’s hair against the red of your robes was an image that you wouldn’t forget so easily. You think of the Tsaritsa’s words, of Tartaglia almost crying and you can believe it, in the way he curls his hand on your robes like a child hating to part ways.

You gently card your fingers through his hair, thinking deeply, of what all of this meant. His head on your lap, your hand in his hair, this intimacy that settles well in your bones, the unspoken trust he held for you from the first day he arrived in the palace. The change from that battle-crazy teen to the young man that was a finely honed weapon of war that stood as your equal.

“I was afraid you know,” Tartaglia looked at you through his long lashes “that you’d end up hating me or leaving forever.”

You said nothing.

“There were records─of you and your past─nothing substantial but enough if one knew the ins and outs of the story” Tartaglia’s hand curled tightly on your robes, crinkling it in his tight grasp, “I didn’t know.”

“No one did” You replied.

And it was the truth. No one knew how much you cared for that bright eyed human who feared no one. Not even you knew the lengths you would have gone for him, not until you’ve slaughtered your way towards him in a vain attempt to save him.

No one until Tartaglia had been able to piece the missing pieces. To learn the truth behind the red of your robes and the deep scars on your back. It felt like a weight off your shoulders. To be known without speaking the painful truths, putting into words what had transpired that day in Nantianmen. 

“I’ll be more careful when sparring with you.”

“No need.”

You looked into his eyes, “You’re most beautiful when untamed.”

The red that bloomed in his face was your favorite shade of red.

--

From that moment onwards, it was rare to see you without Tartaglia right next to your side. It meant that the two of you were always sent out together across the seven nations with the exception of Liyue. Tartaglia left stories in his wake, about his battle prowess, and adding more to his myths in Snezhnaya.

With him by your side, few people paid attention to you. As it should, Tartaglia was meant to shine brightly, eclipsing the entire room with his presence. Despite that, you made your way into his tales, stories speculating, judging, your relationship with him.

“Lovers” the bards from Mondstadt claim.

“Sworn brothers” the story tellers from Liyue insist.

“Soulmates” the poets from Fontaine declared.

“Aibou” the rakugo masters from Inazuma tell.

“Taw'am roHi” the scholars from Sumeru assert.

“Iyakiciyuha” Natlan’s storytellers announce.

“Rodstvennuyu dushu” Snezhnayan minstrels whisper.

The speculations didn’t bother you as much as what it could do to your relationship with Tartaglia. You cared for him, considered him as a friend and a reliable ally. You wouldn’t want this fragile sort of intimacy between the two of you to be tarnished by 

For all of your supposed aloofness, you cared deeply for him and in extension everything related to him. It meant that his opinion mattered.

“Does it bother you?” Tartaglia had asked, eyes uncharacteristically serious, as he sat on your bed.

You paused and then replied, “It would if it affected us the way we are right now.”

“I see.”

And that was the end of it. Nothing changed, Tartaglia stuck to you like glue and you remained at his side, partnering with him to minimize the fall out of his chaos, fighting with him side by side until both of you could effortlessly fight together in battle like one mind in two bodies.

Tartaglia spent more time in your room during missions until it was more sensible to room together during work trips if only to avoid wasting money for a room that was mostly unused. Then it bled to your private life where Tartaglia opted to spend his time in your home on short holidays rather than travel back to Morepesok.

Which led to meeting some of his siblings, the youngest three had taken a shine to you. It was odd and fascinating to see three young look-alikes of Tartaglia, calling him Ajax. It was even more fascinating seeing him blunder about, desperately trying to hide his real job from his siblings and his former name from you.

You drive their attention away by mentioning your gifts and Tartaglia offers you a grateful smile. The siblings spent time in your home, making a mess out of it and you laugh Tartaglia’s worries away.

“It makes this place look lived in” You told him just as Anton abandons Sīzhuī in favor of your drums.

Tartaglia said nothing to that, only staring at you in a way that you can’t quite understand. But as quickly as you caught his look, it disappeared just as well with Teucer barreling to your legs.

The rest of his siblings visit descend into mayhem, a welcome one, there are demands for toys and adventures, and you grant all of it. You have been in service of the Tsaritsa for a long time and barely had any worldly desires to be able to make a dent on your savings. You are arguably the richest Harbinger alive. Spending your dusty money for a child’s happiness was worth it.

Tartaglia’s grateful smile was worth it.

The warm feeling in your heart that takes days to dissipate after their departure was worth it.

Tartaglia permanently living with you was worth it. 

--

“Our clan loves deeply,” Your father once said, voice somber and looking at a painting of a mother you’ve never met “almost like a curse.”

You didn’t understand until the day came when you changed your white robes for red ones.

--

Tartaglia was a complex character. A human who keeps you on your toes and leaves you wanting more and more until it becomes impossible to keep yourself away from worldly desires. Five thousand nine hundred and eighty six years of cultivation practice that abstains from worldly desires went down the drain when you met him.

You didn’t even know.

Tolerance gave way to fondness.

Fondness to love.

You didn’t know when your time started moving forward again, when remembering no longer brought pain and sorrow. By the time you noticed it, it was too late.

You could no longer escape from it, no path of retreat left, not when his touch brings you warmth. Not when he looks at you so softly, so fond with his bright blue eyes that it feels too much. Not when his absence feels like a loss of limb, not when necessity dictates a separation.

There is no other word for this.

And so, you play Sīzhuī in the night and meditate.

Love is a curse and Tartaglia only deserves the blessings of the world.

--

Tartaglia, Ajax as he was called back then, remembers growing up hearing the stories about an Adeptus in Snezhnaya, it was the talk of the town and every adult knew the story that was passed down.

The adeptus, male, with red robes that was too thin for Snezhnaya’s climate showed up with the Tsaritsa. His hair was inky black and flowed like silk, his eyes were gold if it was melted, his skin was perfect. Tartaglia remembered the stories that his father told him about you, your fights that left a mark in Snezhnaya’s history, strategies that had every scholar from Sumeru debating endlessly on its merits and demerits, but what remained deeply etched in his heart and memory was a story only known to their family.

You had saved his father, once in his youth as an adventurer, there was an avalanche and his father had resigned himself to death. Only to be saved at the last minute by you. You had came in, standing on your sword, red robes fluttering in the wind as you scooped his father up and away from the path of the avalanche and into safety.

No words were exchanged.

You left just as quickly as you came. Back straight and hair fluttering in the wind, very much like the noble heroes depicted in Liyue’s literature.

And Ajax had wanted that, had dreamt of fighting with you side by side as an equal, and then dreamt of you. His fall to the abyss did nothing to dampen that desire, it only served to fuel him further, his ambition becoming a tangled mess of wanting adventures, getting stronger and at the heart of it all you.

He’s thrown into the Fatui and then he meets you. 

Every story told about you describes you in the same way, a handsome adeptus who wore red clothes and a forehead ribbon with golden qingxin embroidered in it. The thing is no one mentioned the weight of your stare, to have molten gold eyes to look at you from above and make you feel as if you were lowly.

It was what Ajax felt when he had arrived in the Palace, what Tartaglia felt when he became a Harbinger.

It doesn’t curb down his desire though. It only spurred him on, made him want to have myths and legends created about him, to match the ones you’ve left in the annals of history, until his name, his title becomes synonymous with yours.

The thing is nothing was as good as the real deal. Everyone told him about your golden words, how you rarely speak unless absolutely necessary, how you were cold and aloof and the thing is they are so so wrong.

There is nothing aloof or cold about you.

Your words are golden but Tartaglia can hear your unspoken words from the curve of your lips to the small frown of your face and even the glint of your eyes.

And it thrills him.

To know you in such a way that no one ever would. The entire world can have your myths and legends but Tartaglia? He would have you, the realest version of you that has preferences and quirks and gets drunk so easily that it leaves his heart gasping and insides twisting from the sheer amount of fondness you evoke from him.

He loves you, from the start, he thinks.

And then the forehead ribbon happened and for the first time Tartaglia was at loss, hurt and fearful and definitely bloodthirsty. The grief and shock in your eyes, the visible pain when you saw your ribbon at the ground had him panicking.

The win felt bitter in his tongue, as he watched your red robes flutter away with each quick step you took away from him. He stared dumbly at your retreating back and regrets. Your disappearance feels like years when in reality it was months but still Tartaglia wreaks enough chaos and havoc in his wake that had the Tsaritsa calling him back and then receives the story.

It wasn’t a complete one but it was enough.

It takes several trips to Snezhnaya’s mountains and a couple of manmade avalanches before the Tsaritsa takes one look at him and orders him to stay in his office until your return. And Tartaglia does his best to not look like a child sent to be grounded but it was hard, even his dedication to his duty could not stand to his desire to fly to your side and remain there but he relents.

And only when Pulcinella had revealed that no human would be able to access your cave because it was on top of Snezhnaya’s tallest mountain.

So he resigned himself to waiting. He resigned himself to whatever it was you would do once you returned, resigned himself to lose you because Tartaglia is many things but he was never one to hurt his loved ones.

And then as always you overturn his expectations, you welcome him, you forgive him and then you make him fall for you all over again and Tartaglia resents you a little bit for it.

(It was a lie, he could never bring himself to resent you.)

The change started from there, he tests the waters, gauging how much you can take before you drew a line before him. He stands too close to you, hands on your waist or any other body part, sleeps in your room during away missions more often than not until the two of you begin sharing a room then a bed. You don’t care about the rumors, the speculations, you love his siblings and Tartaglia could see a future with you.

And then Liyue happens.

-- 

It goes like this, you are assigned to oversee the operation in Liyue and Tartaglia is to take the Gnosis. He reports his findings to you and you give him leads.

He follows and eventually befriends the funeral parlor consultant. Then he learns about you. Snippets of a history written in blood and separation of lovers, and between father and son. Just as you’ve left your traces in Snezhnaya’s history, you’ve left your touch in Liyue’s tea houses.

And it leaves a bitter taste of jealousy in Tartaglia’s mouth.

He thinks of your guqin, named Sīzhuī, meaning to remember. 

He thinks of your new red robes sans the fur, your red forehead ribbon. 

“The adeptus had loved the mortal man enough to slaughter his way through 100 clan elders to save a single mortal who walked away from the path of righteousness.” 

He thinks of everything you gave up for one man and Tartaglia wants that for himself.

And yet he does nothing about it. Instead he devotes himself to the mission, enjoys the time between preparing for his next move and doing his day job at the bank with spending it with either you or Zhongli. He doesn’t ask you about the little details in your life during your tenure as an Adeptus.

He doesn’t ask the questions he wants.

Because above all, Tartaglia had always respected you so he waits until you can tell him everything. In the end, it takes a fight between the two of you before it happens.

--

“I don’t want to involve the weak.” 

“...I’ll draft up another plan then.”

--

Any other person would have been hurt by the lies, the deception, and the manipulation. Tartaglia isn’t any other person.

He is rational and meticulous when it comes to his job as a Harbinger, and he recognizes this event as part of it. It chafes at him but ultimately he can carry on with this blight in his reputation. And that was the thing, it was supposed to be blight in his, not yours.

Not the romanticized hero Liyue made you out to be, not the upright and honorable Harbinger you are.

Tartaglia can take it. He can afford being used as a scapegoat, can weather out his role as a villain in Liyue’s history. He cannot, will not, however allow your reputation to be tarnished.

He rages, he schemes, he makes a scene but all of it is for nothing. Not when it's your scheme he is up against, not when you were so determined to make yourself a villain in this story. And for the first time, Tartaglia saw how big the gap between the two of you were. He thinks three steps ahead and you think ten.

He is no match at all and it burns him. Enough so that Zhongli had noticed and commented on it,

“Is it not better this way for you?”

“Xiansheng,” Tartaglia bites out “I’d rather not have them suffer at all.”

And it was the truth. Tartaglia would rather have his name drag through the mud than let you experience the scorn of the people you once sought to protect. 

Zhongli gives him a considering look and Tartaglia does his best to settle his agitation, to be calm as you once instructed him. Eventually Zhongli speaks,

“It is their good fortune to have met you in this lifetime” He takes a sip of his tea, staring into the cup, “Have you considered the reason behind their action?”

Tartaglia thinks of the stories of the romance between you and your former almost husband. The 100 lashes that left a deep scar on your back, your eventual departure from your clan and the service of Rex Lapis. He thinks of the shape of your love and it leaves him reeling.

He leaves a mora pouch on the table and makes his way to you, to your side and he wants to beg for forgiveness, to demand you to stop because Tartaglia does not require your sacrifice.

He just wants you.

--

Years ago, you resigned yourself to never step foot in this place. Accepted that perhaps Liyue would never be your home from the moment everything you held dear slipped through your fingers.

But Fate was a funny thing.

Here you stood in the ancestral hall, sitting before your Father and Mother’s stone tablet. Staring blankly at the curling smoke of the incense with a heavy heart filled with regrets.

Your cousin sits beside you, the clan leader after your departure and Fú Shě’s eventual ascension.

“Uncle regretted it.”

“Mn.”

“The night before he died, he called me in his room. I wasn’t born yet when you left or when tang ge disappeared but I grew up hearing stories of you.”

You gave her a sad smile.

She laughs it off, a rare personality among your reticent clansmen, it was a welcome one, “You were somewhere between a cautionary tale and someone to look up to. The clan elders said that your love was the perfect example of what it means to love deeply and what it means to suffer for it.”

You watch her twiddle her thumbs, exhale and continue on, “Uncle told me that if one day you returned, he wanted you to be written back to the clan genealogy. He regretted punishing you for what you did. That he made it seem like you had to leave with nothing on you except your savings.”

“We are cultivators, I would have survived nonetheless with my meager savings.”

“You shouldn’t have” She insists, and their is righteousness in her eyes, in her conduct, in her bones, that empathizes with the people “I can’t condone you for killing 100 of our clan elders but I can understand why you did what you have to do.”

You smiled at her, feeling the knot in your heart disappear. Because this was what you had wanted back then, when faced with the option to uphold your duty or abandon your beloved. You just wanted to be understood for your actions, to not be painted in any other light beyond loving someone deeply. There was no righteousness or depravity.

There was only you seeing your beloved suffering persecution and wanting to save them.

“Thank you.”

She smiles at you and just like that years of grievances are put to rest. There is no father, no mother, or brother to return to but your heart is at ease and free of suffering. You look at your cousin, the clan leader, and asked her,

“What should I call you?”

She smiled and answered, “Birth name Xīnjiān, courtesy name Zhīyuàn.”

“Xīnjiān to have a strong heart, and Zhīyuàn to know peace” You showed your appreciation for her name, praising it, “This clearly shows your parents' wishes for you. To have a heart that never wavers and to always be at peace.”

You look up to your parents' stone tablet, at your brother’s mini statue and silently bid them farewell and an apology. To your cousin you say, “The clan is in good hands, with you at the helm even the disappearance of Rex Lapis would not hinder the clan's future.”

This time you leave your clan home, not with a barely healed back, a broken heart and grim determination. Instead you step out of the gate with your back straight and head held high, your robes are still red, your forehead ribbon still bearing the golden qingxin.

You are welcome to return but you knew deep in your heart that your home lies elsewhere. There was no need to have your tarnished reputation to blacken your clan’s doors.

You slowly walk your way down, the golden gingko leaves falling as the winds rustle the branches. You think of your past, the choices you made and the choices you will make. Despite the uncertainty of what the future holds your footsteps are light as you walk down the thousand steps of your former home.

“Our clan loves deeply,” Your father once said, voice somber and looking at a painting of a mother you’ve never met “almost like a curse.”

And then he turned to you with a smile, equal parts sad and happy, “but with the right person it is a blessing.”

“Bàbà, what do you mean?”

“It means that with the right person our love would not cause suffering either to us or to our spouse.”

Tartaglia stood at the bottom of the stairs looking up to you, and then he ran up the stairs meeting you halfway and closing the gap between the two of you.

You understood then what your father had meant, that day in his study.

--

At the end of it all, Tartaglia asks the one question he had always feared,

“Do you still love him?”

You clutch his hand tight and answered, “Always. But it doesn’t mean I don’t love you either.”

Tartaglia doesn’t speak.

“I’ll always love him, but it isn’t the same way as it was then. I used to think that I’d never be able to love again, that my time had stopped when they died,” You’re too afraid to look at Tartaglia so you settle your sights on the scenery in front of you “and then I met you. Without realizing it, my time started moving forward and this heart of mine started beating again.”

You smiled and intertwined his fingers with yours, hands tightly clasped together as if fearing separation.

“To have met you, in the lowest point of my life, is my greatest fortune.” 

And it was the truth. You didn’t know what you would have done if Tartaglia hadn’t appeared in your life that day. If he hadn’t pestered you.

He pulls you back to him and you let yourself be pulled, crashing into his chest.

“I love you” He declares “I want to spend everyday with you, crossing swords with you, I want to be the first thing you see in the morning and the last thing you see at night.”

He lifts your face, hand gently holding it and stares deep into your golden eyes and bares his heart out for you, “I don’t need you to sacrifice yourself for me, I just want you.”

You looked at him with astonishment, your face burning bright red from his admission.

“Columbina, back then I’ve always wanted to sleep with you!”

The two of you stood at the other end of the terrace occupied by Zhongli and the Traveler. You could bear to look at him, not when your head felt light and your heart felt like it could fly up any moment. Not when it felt like you can ascend right now from the sheer happiness of Tartaglia loving you back.

“I’ve never been in love before. I-I know that I can’t compare to him but for me it has only ever been you! I love you, I fancy you, I cherish you! I want you more than I want to dominate the world! I can’t live without you!”

“...”

Tartaglia took your hand and placed it on his chest, above his heart, “You told me once, if I can’t tell by the face then listen to the heart. Then listen to mine. I want to do it with you every day. This isn’t just me joking or a momentary fancy. I just love you so much that I want to sleep with you, I can’t feel this way towards anyone else but you!”

Through his warm chest, and rough fabric of his uniform, you felt the rapid beating of his heart.

“Columbina, I want to do everything with you, you can do anything to me and I’d accept it as long as you’re willing!”

“...willing…” You mumbled, head bent and hair covering the sides of your face.

“That’s right! I’m willing to accept anything you do to me!”

You stepped closer to him, curling up in his arms and Tartaglia saw the red tip of your ears and slowly, ever so slowly it dawned on him as you spoke clearly with a slight tremble in your voice,

“I am willing.” 

You smiled, soft and small that one would almost think they were seeing things but they weren’t. Even as an adeptus you had rarely smiled, few people over the course of your life had seen you smile. They could even be counted on one hand.

But today, Tartaglia saw you smile like a glaze lily that was unfurling its petals at night.

Zhongli, the Traveler, Paimon, and countless others who were looking your way were stunned into silence. No one expected to see you smile after Osial’s release, and the Qixing’s announcement.

【Folklore】

There is a famous statue of lovers in Liyue and Snezhnaya, two immortals facing each other, one holding a forehead ribbon on his hand and the other holding the other immortal’s hand on his.

The two statues depicted Tartaglia the Warrior, and Hǎiān Xuězhù Zhēnjūn. It is said that worshiping one statue alone would bring misfortune. Don’t believe it? Then rub the forehead ribbon on Tartaglia’s hand, kowtow three times to Hǎiān Xuězhù Zhēnjūn and then propose to your lover only to get turned down.

Or buy a lottery ticket, rub Tartaglia’s hand and then wait for the results only to miss out on the jackpot. Therefore, if one wasn’t particular in worshipping the two it was better to stay away from them and just show your respects from afar.

However, if you were to worship them both together, offer them a cup of nuptial wine then a miracle would happen. The two would expel each other’s misfortune and bring forth twice the fortune.

Legends say that the reason for this was that the two immortals had loved each other deeply, Hǎiān Xuězhù Zhēnjūn was said to be willingly sacrifice himself for Tartaglia, and Tartaglia was said to be unwilling in letting his beloved suffer. Therefore, to worship one over the other was to deny their deep love for the other, conversely to worship both together was to acknowledge their deep love for each other.

Therefore regardless of station in life, many would come to worship Hǎiān Xuězhù Zhēnjūn and Tartaglia together, but most common among them were lovers and people who were heartbroken. This was because it was well-known, most especially in Snezhnaya and Liyue, that the two were fated to each other.

It was the reason why the common depiction of the two was facing each other, ten fingers clasped together with Hǎiān Xuězhù Zhēnjūn red forehead ribbon intertwined in between their fingers.

[probably-haven]

Hello!! After seeing what you wrote about xiaoven fics I went to see what things you usually write and omg, your archon Venti headcanons????? I am absolutely in love. So if it isn't annoying, could you talk about xiaoven or Venti or Xiao or whatever ship or character you like? I don't care what you are going to say, I just want to know more about your thoughts ^^

I- is this... bestie, this is essentially a free ramble pass- kerujsgheskdfug. Trust me when I say that in no way is this, and in no way will it ever be annoying in the slightest- i literally- lets just say rambling off thoughts is kind of my specialty, especially when provided a topic to branch off of because otherwise I'm just- really indecisive about it so- iujskdh yeah- 100% definitely down to talk about Venti, Xiao, and/or Xiaoven XD. Also, yes- it may have been awhile since i last posted one(cuz again, indecisive about which direction to take part 5), but the Archon War Era Venti headcanons are still without a doubt my favorite posts I've made. It's just such an interesting topic with such endless potential that so few people actually think about or consider or even realize is there, so i always just get really psyched whenever i see someone interact with them lol.

.... this ended up being a bit of a mess: warning in advance

Anyway! onto the actual content!

- You see the thing about Xiaoven is that there's a lot of different ways that it could end up working out, and just personally my favorite way of portraying Xiaoven in my mind is as an unlabeled relationship because if anyone in genshin would give off that vibe its these two. And a number of other reasons.

- Firstly, I heavily headcanon Venti as being an aroace polyplatonic or perhaps heavily demiromantic. However, regardless of this I just don't think that Venti is really the kind of person to worry about how he should label his feelings, thinking it's silly to try to put them in one box or the other, especially with feelings and emotions being as fluid as they are in general. Plus it fits his whole God of Freedom vibe. I just- dont think he's the biggest fan of labels or social categorization in general.

- And secondly on the hand of Xiao... his defense mechanisms are very much ingrained in his personality. It's probably hard enough for him to not go into fight or flight(the answer is fight) at the slightest affection at first, at the slightest feeling of vulnerability. Even further down the line, with his fierce dedication to Liyue, I cant help but get the vibe that the moment he recognized that he was falling for Venti he would begin avoiding him, not only to avoid distraction from his duty, but to avoid corrupting him or losing him in general like he has with like basically every other person he gets close with(even believing that the cycle had repeated once more when he first heard of Morax's death)... now imagine Venti tryna slap a label on their relationship and tell me Xiao would have a positive reaction.

- The thing with Xiaoven.... honestly, i feel like theres more ways that it can go wrong than it can go right, but if they do manage to make their relationship work out, it's just simply beautiful in all terms of the word.

- Lets talk about killing. - During the Archon War, both were forced to kill a large number of people and gods alike- Venti out of a need to remain alive to protect Mondstadt, it's freedom, and the nameless bard's legacy by extent- and Xiao out of servitude to the god that was once his master

..... actually- break here- ive talked a lot about Venti on this blog but I havent actually spoken about Xiao all that much- so i should probably do that a bit first... do note though that my characterization of Xiao is pretty flexible actually- this is just- the possible characterization of him that i tend to favor as being the most- uh- "realistically complex"

-

Theres a line I saw this one time in a certain story: "He is a trained weapon. That's what he is, was, and always will be. You cannot change that so stop trying." And i just- think its a really interesting concept- that applies pretty well to Xiao now that i actually think about it. - the concept behind it is this: After spending more than a vast majority of his life killing or otherwise in battle, it's become a part of who he is, a normalcy that after centuries and centuries would be near impossible to get rid of or reverse, and even if it was possible, with his karmic debt constantly eating away at him its unlikely he has enough time left for that to happen. - it sounds like a cruel thing to say about him- but in context it's actually pretty layered and i think about it a lot. It's not as much a "he's a killer lol, that his whole personality" its more of a "The centuries of trauma he experienced have conditioned him into a constantly alert and battle ready mindset while also shaping his dehumanizing inferior-in-worth-but-superior-in-capability view of himself that would have likely been necessary to get through those time, and at this point he's been under that conditioning for long enough that it's essentially ingrained itself in his personality."

- the main idea is- it's a part of who he is, that needs to be accepted as who he is because its not something that he can just up and change. It's not all he is of course but his constant battle mode, as though always waiting to be ambushed or to be granted a new target to eradicate.

a couple character story quotes:

-"His past of service under the evil god had rid Xiao of his innocence and gentleness. All that remained within him was the means to kill and the weight of his sins. The only way he could be of service to mortals was in combat." -"Xiao does not feel any hatred. Having lived for over two thousand years, no single karmic debt constitutes anything more than a fleeting memory. No grudge can last a thousand years; nor is any debt so great that it cannot be paid off in this time. Xiao has spent many long years alone. But his battles have never been in vain." -"where did Xiao have to return to? He was merely leaving the battlefield." -"since Xiao wages a constant war against dark forces powerful enough to devour Liyue in its entirety, any bystanders who witness him in the heat of battle are likely to end up as collateral damage." -"The war he fights can never be won, and will never come to an end." -"Because ultimately, the one with whom Xiao wrestles is himself."

i feel like at some point this very nearly did consume his whole personality, almost turning him into nothing more than a being of slaughter under Morax's control, devoid of any "humanity" at all, consumed and corrupted by his karmic debt like his fellow yakshas before him. - until he experienced a moment of clarity- a song in the wind, the peaceful melody of a dihua flute. - and pulled back from the border of something he wouldnt have been able to return from, there a was a shift in his mind- a concept grown unfamiliar enough with time that it took him a great time to identify what it was; a curiosity. Something that there was no place for on the battlefield, something that by all means should have been completely useless to Xiao, and yet he held onto that curiosity, slowly regaining over time, a sense of who he was and who he could choose to be with each song that the wind chose to carry towards him every once in a blue moon.

and eventually that curiousity turned to longing. Longing "for a day to come when he will wear the mask and dance — not to conquer demons, but to the tune of that flute amid a sea of flowers"

...... uh- heh- if you couldn’t tell already i have a tendency to make my characterizations/analyses of characters more serious that i probably should. 

to summarize: Xiao is constantly toeing the line between his ingrained nature and his humanity- almost as though still trying to decide how much of that humanity he deserves to have, how much he is allowed to have, and how much is safe to have.

^looking back after writing this, i think the best way to explain it is that this is the view that i keep in mind/the lense that i tend to most enjoy looking through and refering back to while examining and/or analyzing his character, actions, story, lines, and overall personality.

idk- i kinda got off track but i just think its a really interesting interpretation to think about because it has some really interesting implications ig- it’s not the full extent of how i view him of course, but i kinda got ahead of myself and its long enough as is so ill just elaborate as i go- Lol i actually have in progress playlists for both him and venti and just- vibes- i could ramble about the playlists alone for hours explaining everything... It’s probably a problem- uh- ill keep going now lol.

anyways! stepping off the angst path for a brief break! Brought to you by their lines in the snow: both waiting for it to get thick enough, Venti for the purpose of a snowball fight and Xiao for the purpose of a tasty and nutritious breakfast.

but its actually something of note that Xiao doesnt actually need to eat so anything he does eat is usually out of obligation or enjoyment- so like.... snow.... like i dont blame him, but of all things- an adeptus who refuses to eat basically anything but almond tofu looks at the freezing-cold-floor-water that yeeted itself from above and decided at some point- damn- that seems more edible than basically ever single actually edible thing ever.... im gonna eat it- like- im glad if eating snow makes him happy but- at the same time...

He probably convinces Venti to eat snow too though and Venti wouldnt even resist I mean he’s wind and has probably consumed worse things in his time so- 2 anemo cryptids with glowing tattoos sitting in Dragonspine monching snow in the dead of night is an amusing thought to me.

- kay, now back to more serious-toned thoughts

One of the things about the ship that i really like is the different contradicting parallels between them:

A lot of how i view Xiao’s character is someone formed largely by the things he cant control and who was forced to accept that accepted that and learned to thrive in it as much as he can.  Venti on the other hand is surrounded by things he cant control and is ever adapting to control as much as he can while embracing whatever he cant as being part of the unpredictability of the world, seeing beauty in it. 

both of them have lost people and do what they do to honor their memory: Xiao continues to do what the Yakshas once did And Venti chooses to do what his friend couldn’t

Xiao’s power coming from himself  and Venti’s from others And both seem to appear to use their power for their own gain while truly helping others behind the scenes

both have killed a lot of people during the archon war Xiao views it as another necessary event out of his control and Venti would likely view it as a tragedy he chose to enact himself

and this is where we meet out balance

Xiao- contrary to how i think a lot of people view him as thinking of himself as a monster- seems canonically to have accepted this as part of his duty, as long as those he killed are not mortals. I dont think he enjoys it no- but someone has to do it and he’s just accepted that its a part of his duty Venti on the other hand-

See the beauty of the ship- as someone with an angst-centric mind- is this- these are two of the most traumatized mfers in the game 

Xiao is by far the one who needs the most help and who can serve to benefit most from the ship- but he is nowhere near self aware enough to recognize that there’s anything wrong or unhealthy about his mindset in the slightest-

whereas you have the contrast with Venti who sorted through most of his trauma with the nameless bard alone during the archon war and while the result appears more healthy- is still really not- but he’s not self aware of that either because i mean- who’s going to tell him? nobody even knows. 

however- venti is aware enough to notice flaws in Xiao’s mindset and “Venti” enough to want to help them through it-

Xiao- while not aware enough to recognize the flaws in Venti’s mindset, can recognize where it contrasts with his own, and is blunt enough to point it out- and then it’s out there to be mulled over- 

they’re so similar and yet so different and a feel just conversing between the two of them, being in each others precense, just being exposed to two mindsets that are so very different could do both of them a whole lot of good.

GEEE THAT BIT OF RAMBLING HAD LITTLE TO NO DIRECTION AT ALL- LET ME-- LET ME MAKE THIS START MAKING SENSE- WITH... DYNAMICS OR SOMETHING

I don’t think Xiao needs to sleep really- and i dont think that sleeping would do anything except make him uneasy at first- he’d probably just get nightmares after all he’s been through- but with Venti he would soon learn that it doesn’t have to be that way, lulled into the first peaceful sleep he’s had in... as long as he can remember.

anywho back to not making sense cuz im fickle and i think most questions about ships are best displayed through character interactions so like- a possible exchange thats cliche but cliches exist for a reason

Xiao: Why do you try so hard to help me, it isn’t easy. I know that much Venti, with the most adoring expression: Because you’re worth it, obviously Xiao: But surely there are others more deserving of- Venti: No Xiao, everyone is just as deserving as the next person, you included Xiao: Then why me above others? Venti: ehe, cuz ur my warrior of course [O//////O oh shit, hes right] Xiao: My contract is with Morax alone [gay panic but in broody yaksha]

it’s kinda difficult cuz neither of them really address their feelings.  I mean Venti does but he does it very indirectly and its rare that he ever does it with like- genuine directness- even spilling his backstory was in the form of a song- and told in the third person- so a lot of their interactions would often have some deeper meaning, especially with Venti being the bard he is. 

I come up with a lot of- errant thoughts about Xiaoven- but this is making me realize that a true analysis of their ship is rather difficult because it just encompasses so many dynamics so its hard to settle on just one and not go rambling about who knows what bouncing from one end of the ship to the other-  Because you truly can and thats the beauty of it

within one moment you can be having a heartfelt conversation about the archon war the impact of lost friends and times past, and the next moment Venti is trying to forcefeed Xiao an apple while Xiao screams about disrespecting the adepti and its just- so lovely

so while they have picnics with nothing but apples, dandelion wine, and almond tofu they can sit down and talk about the dreams Xiao once devoured, and the dandelion wine and apple cider that the first Ragnvindir invented from the plants that never could have grown in Old Mond. The foods that tasted of familiarity, or of the grilled ticker fish Pervases always used to eat, foods that tasted of friends and frankly family that had since passed, glaze lilies and cecilias and qingxin flowers scattered in the surroundings and woven into Xiao’s neat braids and Venti’s now messy ones, rebraided by the steady and inexperienced hands of one unused to gentle action. 

and then of course Venti steals Xiao’s tofu once the mood becomes too grim and replaces it with a bottle of wine that Xiao refers to as “vile poison,” a remark that fatally wounds Venti as he collapses on the floor, proclaiming how he can only be healed by a Yaksha’s kiss. Xiao ignores this of course and simply takes back his tofu with a slight smile on his face, but as Venti persists he soundlessly places a kiss on his own palm before intertwining their fingers and pulling him back up from where he was dramatically sprawled on the floor, grumbling about how such action was “unbecoming of an archon.” A sign of affection only Xiao would ever know about. But Venti is literally wind and I hc his senses work differently anyways so he definitely knows- plus Xiao’s face is red as the blood of his enemies and the way he is pointedly not looking at Venti at all really speaks volumes anyways. 

 -Venti playing epic battle music whenever Xiao goes into fights in what looks like a ridiculously extra performance to anyone else but is actually doing wonders to keep Xiao’s karma at bay

-Venti preaches the practice of “kissing wounds better” and Xiao is unfamiliar with this medical treatment but views it as unnecessary regardless because adepti have accelerated healing, doesn’t mean he’s going to stop him though. 

-Messages whispered on the wind

-Venti’s 1000 year sleep- an accident, not a fun time for the yaksha, and not a fun time for Venti once he woke up. Venti is actually more afraid of restful sleep than Xiao is, hence the sleeping in trees thing, but when Xiao is there, he can sleep restfully with faith that Xiao wont let another millennia slip through his fingertips. 

- Xiao tends to make excuses when doing things that aren’t necessary to his duty, like in his birthday voice line “Have this, it’s a butterfly i made from leaves... Okay. Take it. It’s an adepti amulet -- it staves off evil” because at the current point in his progress it helps him to feel like he’s allowed to do these things. Not wanting to put him off from progress, Venti never comments on his excuse but never fails to whisper a quick reminder of how proud he is of how far Xiao had come.

- Xiao’s karma saddens Venti greatly- not only because of how it effects Xiao but also because its a reminder that as much as Venti tries to honor the memory of those he’s killed, there will always be those who resent him for it, and when he took the option of living away from them, he truly can’t blame them. - And when he gets too wrapped up in thoughts, whether around this topic or similar ones or otherwise, eventually, he’ll hear the sound of a flute on the wind. It’s not divine by any means, but as his own wind connects him to the source, he gets the sentiment all the same. “What impact does one individual’s remaining wrath have on the present. You have done much to help the living in the present” the unspoken idea that Xiao has included himself in that statement, because now, with Venti’s help he’s beginning to learn just how to experience living for himself. 

- Venti’s form and Xiao’s mask are off limit topics though because if either mentions it the other will counter with the opposite and the mood will turn immediately bitter at the idea that both know that what they’re doing is destructive but neither are willing to change

- Venti who has different tells for negative feelings than most people because as much as he likes to pretend it is- this form isnt his, and Xiao who is able to identify those

- many fanfics and headcanons have Venti recognizing when Xiao is uncomfortable and getting him out of those situations. I see that and I love it but i raise you: - Venti taking Xiao to Mondstadt, careful that he doesn’t get to the point that he’s uncomfortable. And nothing goes wrong exactly, but Xiao notices the the way Venti’s cape is blowing in the wind, the way he’s holding his weight, barely on his feet so much as floating on the wind, connected with the ground only for the sake of appearance, all the while he looks just as happy go lucky as ever. And without a word, he grabs his hand and teleports them both out of Mondstadt.  - turns out it was just a slight thing that reminded him of the archon war (cuz i will die on the hill of him having more tragic backstory than just Decarabian), and he of course gives a sincere if not flustered thanks to Xiao, because he’s really not used to people noticing. 

- Venti trying to vent sneakily through fictional stories and Xiao is just like “Didn’t that basically happen to you” and Venti is just like “<_< shit”

- Venti once said affectionally that he wished he had met Xiao sooner and Xiao immediately and seriously shot it down by saying “If you had, I would have been forced to kill you” and both of them now stay up at night wondering who would have won that fight, not sure which result would have hurt more. (because honestly I have no idea who would win in that fight and that terrifies me- I like to think it would have been one of those legends that end with “and the fight persists to this day” or something along those lines)

- “How long have you been together?” “Adepti have no need for-” “1000+ years T^T how dare you deny our love” “O///O our...? ...useless”

- its disney- let me explain- i have this- i have this headcanon inspired by watching too many animatics- - so venti has a human form that isnt his- which he would have had to get used to moving in- and he’s a bard- - uh- anyway- as a third degree black belt in mixed martial arts, i can speak as an authority on this(not really an authority since i havent gone since quarantine but lets pretend). We have a thing referred to as the big three(most things do), and those things are martial arts, gymnastics, and dance. The idea is that they reflect really well off of each other and the best in any one category are good in all three. Timing, balance, form, discipline, technique, hand-eye coordination, grace, ease of motion, they all play a part- anyway-

- Venti taking Xiao’s prowess in martial arts and acrobatics and teaching him how to dance, and as someone who’s extremely skilled in the first two, the third comes easy to him, almost naturally. And it’s delicate and beautiful and lovely and it isn’t hurting anyone. And Venti points all these things out and more and despite how much Xiao insists that he feels ridiculous he truly does enjoy it and it goes a long way towards helping him form more healthy views of himself and his worth.  - Verr Goldett walked in on him once and made a joke about performing at the inn. unfortunately Venti was there and agreed on Xiao’s behalf before he could protest and- and it wasn’t as bad as Xiao thought it would be... he still wouldn’t do it again though without reason, but with good enough reasoning he could probably be convinced. 

- anyways point is he likes dancing to Venti’s songs and i just think that’s really cute - just picture the idea that all the animatics you see actually have the potential to be canon- ugh

- venti tries holding something out of Xiao’s reach since he’s taller and Xiao just fucking teleports 

- both need their space but when they dont, all they have to do is speak the other’s name and they’ll be there.

- and because i just had to.... love languages

- lets start with Xiao- i don’t think he’d view acts of service or quailty time as a love language tbh, and he blunt but really bad with words so affirmation is out, leaving gift giving and physical touch. However, he seems to view most material things as meaningless so- - Xiao who’s love language is in his fleeting touches, something he’s only recently grown comfortable with because of Venti, and now is giving back, which he knows he doesn’t have to do, but that he want’s to, though he’ll still continue to make excuses for each one. “you were shivering” “The inn is high up, you could have fallen..... I said what I said, you’d question an adeptus?”

- and as easy as it is to say words of affirmation for Venti- he does that for everyone- i want to say his is actually acts of service - its the acts of service that let him see just how much Xiao has progressed afterall, from teaching him to dance, to playing another song on the flute, to supplying him with the almond tofu he seems to enjoy so much. Every little thing he does helps Xiao to grow and he couldn’t be happier about that. 

-

- of course most of my headcanons for the ship do take place latter into the relationship because- y’know the less serious unhealthy vibes allow for greater range of thought, but i do still love to think about the serious implications so i kinda hopped back and forth. So sorry about how messy it is btw, i kinda- got carried away- it kinda got some kind of structure near the end tho so- maybe it’s okay. anyway- back to... lol something, we’ll see where thought forests lead. 

[gryffindors-weasley]

Sleepless Night

Draco Malfoy x Reader

Summary: When Draco can do nothing but toss and turn, he finds himself thinking of you.

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: slight angst, mentions of the war, mentions of the dark mark, self doubt, fluff, kissing

(gif found on pinterest, credit to the maker!)

The night drew on slowly, the moonlight illuminating the room and bathing it in its soft glow before disappearing momentarily as it weaved through the clouds. It was quiet, save for the ticking of the clocks and the softness of your breathing. Despite all of the obvious comfort, Draco’s mind had been too active to fall asleep, yet he was too tired to get out of bed and make himself some tea. It was a common routine, one that he hadn’t particularly liked. Though the more he thinks about it, the more he comes to realize that he’s always been a bit of a night owl whether he wants to be or not.

On such occasions, his mind is always quick to wander to you. Sometimes, he swears he’d be perfectly content to never sleep again if it meant he could think about you that much longer, but that simply wouldn’t be feasible. The job of a young healer demands he at least try and get some form of rest, for it’s far too taxing of a profession not to make an effort. So, he will settle for the time he’s got now.

You found yourself most comfortable as you lay on his chest, your legs tangled with his own as the warmth of his skin has long since lulled you to sleep. No matter how many countless nights you assume your rightful position atop his chest, his heart will race each and every time as if it’s the first time you’d ever done it. You notice, of course you do, and sometimes you tease him lightly and sometimes you don’t. Regardless, it will always bring a smile to your face and a burning blush to his cheeks.

He relishes in the feeling of you tucked safely in his arms, that’s all he’s ever wanted you to be with him; safe. Your hold on him has since loosened in your slumber but you somehow always reach for his hand no matter how deeply you’d been sleeping. The thought alone never failed to make him smile when he felt you blindly envelope your hand over his own. It baffled him, really, how someone could love him so deeply that they do so even in their sleep.

He never imagined you’d stay with him, not after the chaos that tarnished every bit of his life while attending Hogwarts and even now. For he has made a myriad of regrettable choices that still come to haunt him with each and every day that passes, choices that haunt him whenever they so please. Perhaps the most obvious sits on his arm, harsh against the paleness of his skin, just screaming to be looked at and noticed. It has since faded from disuse and the long awaited defeat of the Dark Lord just six years ago, but it’s painfully humiliating and swirling imprint still remains.

Loving Draco Malfoy had multitudinous repercussions at that point in your relationship, for you could not love him in the light of day. You could not do more than share a fond glance and even that alone was tempting fate should anyone be privy to your relationship at the time. The love you had was one that could only be shared in the darkness of the night, in the shadows of vacant corridors and the depths of his mothers grand garden behind old oak trees and stone statues.

It had gotten you in trouble once before, and out of everything he had to be fearful for in his life, he felt there was no scarier moment than that of the time his father had been made aware of your presence in his son’s life. His very suspicions were only further brought to light when you stared at him across the rubble in the courtyard. His only son’s hand had been grasped tightly in your own, unwavering as your testament to keep him where he truly belonged.

Draco does not hold a single ounce of regret for keeping his feet planted on the right side of that battlefield, with you. His parents may have been greatly displeased with him, but he felt as though he’d made the right decision for the first time in his life, and that is what mattered. He made a decision for the good. Though he will admit he finds he would have been far too weak to stand his ground had you not done so for him.

He shook his head to rid himself of the memories beginning to cloud his mind in favor of trying to keep himself in the current moment.

The very tips of his fingers trace up and down the column of your spine, ghosting over the shirt of his that you wore and he tried to stifle his sneeze as your hair tickles just under his nose. He wasn’t quite sure when you had claimed it as your own but he couldn’t bring himself to care about the technicalities; you looked far better in it than he had and you loved the tattered thing, that’s what mattered.

A breeze seeps into the room through the open window and he takes a deep breath of the fresh air in an effort to clear his mind. He was to be up for work in a matter of two or so hours and he has yet to have even a minute of a quality sleep. He loved his job at St. Mungo’s wholeheartedly, but the thought of leaving you paired with the exhaustion weighing heavily into his bones has him considering taking the day off altogether. Though he knew he couldn’t, there were far too many people relying on him.

You stretched a bit and squeezed his hand, breathing in a yawn before humming out a sigh as you relax against him once more. A soft smile pulls at his lips at the absentminded action, and he can’t bring himself to mind the fact that he so desperately needed to change positions otherwise he’d be stiff from laying on his back the whole night. Not to mention his nightly tea was finally beginning to catch up to him. But that could wait for now he supposes.

He was tempted to read for the remaining hours of the night, his half-read book just waiting to be finished as it sat atop the nightstand collecting dust. With more thought he readily decided that he’d save it for the following night so he could read it with you, the thought of your grumbling had he done the opposite making him chuckle softly to himself.

Instead, he thought of the plans he’d had with you on his next day off just three days ahead as the breeze continues to sweep over his skin in whispers of touches. You were eager to drag him to the bookshop on the far end of your little town. Even though you were just there barely a week ago, you still found yourself excited as if you hadn’t been there in ages. You would never grow tired of picking out books to read to the other before bed and he knew that fact very well. It had become customary to your nightly routine should your schedules allow, though Draco made a point to try and read to you every day, whether it’s a single page or half the book. The comfort and warmth that came from your tucking yourself against him as he read was something he looked forward to.

He’d thought about his plans of making you dinner that evening, something he’d been thinking about it with every extra hour of overtime he’d been persuaded into taking. You deserved to be spoiled, even if it was just a home cooked meal shared within the warmth of your home. Surely you’d be eating it sitting criss-cross at the coffee table in the comfort of your pajamas, there was no need for expensive restaurants and lavish attire. The simplest of things were good enough as long as he was with you, you were all he needed.

He’d thought of how you’d made him coffee before work just the day before, even though you’d put a tad too much sugar in while in your sleepy state. He drank it anyway even though it was obscenely sweet. Or the way you’d waited up for him to get home from that very shift, just barely awake on the small couch but he remembers the way your face lit up upon seeing him walk through the door. He hadn’t known what he’d done to deserve the affections of someone he deemed to be the most wonderful person he’d ever met, and that was no exaggeration. You radiate sunshine, you only knew love and kindness, and you chose to love him with all you’ve got. The thought crossed his mind each and every day of just how lucky he’d gotten, and he feels as though he will never understand it.

Your stirring had pulled him from his thoughts after a while, the time having gotten away from him in his lovestruck daze, and he nearly took an elbow to the face when you stretched once more.

“Easy, love,” he chuckles, grabbing your wrist and lowering your arm.

A shiver ran through you and you shuddered at the cool air washing over your skin, a soft whine of complaint leaving your lips. In an instant Draco finds himself raising his hand, and with a simple motion of his fingers the windows swiftly and quietly close. The curtains moved once more with the sudden final gust of air, fluttering back to the window before stilling completely.

You lift your head to look at him groggily, brows knit together as your eyes adjust to the dimly moonlit room.

“Go back to sleep, darling,” he hushes, a soft kindness in his tone. You sigh, moving to see him a bit better before settling back against his side as you woke up fully.

“What if I don’t want to?” You mumble softly, tracing your fingertips over his chest and giggling at the goosebumps that rose in their wake.

His nose brushes against your own as he looks down at you, tucking your hair behind your ear as his laugh puffs against your lips. “I’m afraid your constant yawning begs to differ, my love.”

You frown at the words spoken sweetly against your lips, and you were barely given the opportunity to counter his reasoning before his lips press to your own. A soft sigh of contentment is huffed through your nose at the feeling, your hand leaving his chest in favor of settling on his cheek. Strands of platinum brush against your forehead and tickle your skin, and he takes advantage of the opportunity to roll on his side for the first time that night.

“I believe you’re the one who should be getting some sleep, Healer Malfoy, you look dreadful,” you tease, and he quiets your completely logical statement as his lips find yours once more, his arms tightening their hold around you as he hums.

“That’s no fair,” he murmurs, his nose nudging yours lightly. You laugh softly and shake your head.

“How ever should I sleep now that you’ve kissed me?” You ask with the most playful of smiles, smoothing your hand down his cheek and pushing the hair out of his eyes.

He smiles adoringly at you, a soft crimson coating his cheeks that had fortunately gone unseen in the darkness of the room. You were quite possibly the only person in the world to make him blush like an absolute fool, the only person to make him feel a flutter in his heart each time you did so much as look at him. The effect you had on him was completely unable to be helped, for you had him utterly spellbound and that fact would always remain to be true.

“I suppose I should keep kissing you then.”

Your laughter rings out as his lips meet your skin in a flurry of chaste kisses, your joyful giggling filling the otherwise quiet room as his lips press warmly to the juncture of your neck. His own laughing soon mingles with yours as he props himself up on his elbow, dipping down to continue his peppering of kisses on your lips once more and effectively staving away the next bout of giggles that were ready to fall from them. He could kiss you all day if given the opportunity, could spend lifetimes in your arms because he would never tire of pressing his lips along your skin just to hear you laugh. Just to see you smile.

You fall onto your back with a bounce, still giddy at the butterflies left behind to flutter relentlessly in your stomach. He settles down to lay on your chest this time, tucking his face in the crook of your neck as his lips ghost over your skin ever so softly.

“I love you,” he murmurs quietly, discontented upon seeing the navy sky beginning to brighten as dawn rolls around without pause. He wanted to stay with you in bed, enveloped in your arms for the rest of his life if he were to be dramatically honest.

His fingers intertwined with yours as your joined hands sat propped in the air momentarily before falling to the mattress, his smile fading as he grew more tired in your arms.

“I love you more.”

“Darling, you know that isn’t possible,” he whispers, a yawn leaving his lips. 

You only laugh softly and kiss his forehead, the smallest of smiles returning to his kiss swollen lips if only for a moment. Your fingers run through his hair and you allow him to win that one, soft snores vibrating against your skin for the first time that night. He only had just over an hour to sleep, but he knew you’d be there when he woke up.

Every sleepless night was worth it when he’s got you.

—

Tags: @theweasleysredhair @lunalovecroft @hahee154hq @awritingtree @dracosathenaeum @amourtentiaa

[spvce-cowboy]

a strange beauty

chapter 1 of i’ll be here in the morning (the mandalorian x fem!reader)

next-ch.2: “gentle things”

rating: Explicit

5.8k words

summary: The Mandalorian crashes on an unknown planet. Severely injured, he follows the sound of singing until he, literally, lands in your lap. A trained medic, you begrudgingly decide to help the bounty hunter in order to continue evading a dark past.

warnings: Violence, descriptions of gore, masturbation (m), brief panic attack description, hurt/comfort, angst/fluff, suggested sexual assault, canon divergent (post-season 1), slow burn, eventual smut

a/n: i wrote this after reading the Rough Day series by @no-droids​  as well as @cptnbvcks​ ‘s fics. i continue to be inspired by their work so i must give credit where it is due ! my first reader insert/mando thing so let's see how this goes !! thank you for reading <3

**

What he hears first is song.

It’s nearly night on the unfamiliar planet. At first he thinks the sound is some kind of bizarre hum of wind. He’s crash landed and between the hole in his chest and the blood in his eyes, he can barely stagger forward, let alone think things through, as he stumbles out of the smoldering Crest.

It stuns him, for a moment. On the verge of it all ending, the pain vibrating through his body, and he literally falls into some kind of melody so haunting he can’t help but think he’s already in some cruel kind of afterlife. Underworld would be equally fitting, he deserves that more.

He tries to pull in a breath. The sound that leaves him could only be described as a gurgle. It’s followed by a cough. Something hot and metallic tasting comes up with it, coating the inside of his mouth and dribbling over his chin.

Maker, he’s screwed.

He hadn’t realized how much worse it was going to get until he was finally safe in the Crest. In a daze, he opened the med-kit only to find the last Bacta treatment in a shattered mess. In the fresher, he tried to stuff some remaining gauze into the gaping hole on his right pectoral. He really tried not to pass out. He wasn’t successful. He wasn’t sure if it was the exhaustion or the knife wound, but every breath exited in a fluttering wheeze he was barely able to push through. It must have punctured a lung. Fucker was able to get right up under the armor.

Delirious with blood loss, he could barely register the one-handed climb into the cockpit and typing in whatever coordinates first come to mind before he blacked out again. It was in and out from there. He thought he entered Naboo, somewhere safe and familiar and not teaming with others who’d like to do much more and worse than he had already weathered, but a glance at the red-orange slicked control panel told him he was quickly approaching an uncharted planet. His hands were uncontrollably shaking, covered in his own blood and who knows who else’s. He had no idea if the Crest has the ability to dampen the landing but it was too late to start asking favors of some higher power now. 

“Sorry, kid.” It’s all Mando could think to say, voice barely registering over the modulator.

The child was fast asleep already. He had to mend Mando’s spine in order for Mando to drag himself back to the Crest once the smoke of the battlefield had settled. 

Mando’s entire body was still vibrating from the energy of it, probably the only thing keeping his heart beating. He was barely conscious long enough to slide the shields shut on the child’s cradle before impact.

It had been a long day.

He woke, miraculously still breathing—if the futile gasps trying to be made around a collapsed lung could be called something like that. He swung his heavy head around, blindly grasping the child’s cradle and pulling it behind him. The child was still asleep—unharmed save for a dent on the side of his crib that sputtered with an occasional spark. It took Mando a moment to register the alarms blaring, the flashing lights and acrid smell of scorched plastic and metal.

He doesn’t remember staggering out of the Crest. Just that now he is in a field of some sort, staggering forward with the kid’s cradle following close behind.

It is only then that he hears the song.

An idyllic hillside stretches before him, tall grass dotted with small, yellow wildflowers reach to meet a light fog. In the distance there’s the shadowed suggestion of mountains. If he didn’t know any better, he would really think this was Naboo. Mando can’t even begin to comprehend how his brain is able to process any of it. Really? You’re about to take your last handful of breaths and you’re taking in the flowers of all things? Though maybe he isn’t, if he is able to. His head begins to fill with a kind of static where nothing makes any sense.

He can hear, at least. Very well. Well enough to recognize that there is some kind of singing, some kind of song, reverberating through the sensors of his helmet loud enough to bring him back to reality.

 A song isn’t necessarily the right word for it—there are no words, or, at least, no words Mando could distinguish. Sound, more like. Melodious sound. Long, whooping notes of crisp sound. A siren’s call. So he follows the singing.

Mando doesn’t know how long it takes to reach its origin—between his quickly blackening vision or the equally disorienting fog, it is hard to navigate the expanse of green before him, let alone determine the time it takes to see the slight silhouette in the distance. Once he does, it’s a stumbling, panting race to reach it before his legs give out. Mando falls once, then pushes himself up. He doesn’t have the ability to call out around the useless, deflated bag of tissue leaning against the right side of his ribcage, so he keeps pushing forward. And it’s like he’s running in a dream, the pace as which he lurches forward, trailing blood and gore behind him. And he’s trying to move but he keeps almost falling and the figure is getting closer but it isn’t moving and he’s half certain he’s hallucinated it all and this is it. It’s over. All this for almost nothing and what about the kid. What about this kid if it’s over and. It’s over and. And.

And it’s you. Standing there. A long dress lifting slightly with the breeze. Your back is to him, hair swept over and through itself in an intricate braid. When you turn, your face is already contorted in shock.

And still, you are the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

The Mandalorian falls to his knees, colliding with the ground before he can even process losing feeling in the lower half of his body.

**

He can’t stop having dreams about a skinless figure.

In it, he is Din again. For the first time in a long time. He knows this in the way one just knows things, in dreams.

He can’t stop having dreams about a skinless figure.

He is kneeling before it, in defeat or prayer he does not know. It is one in the same, either way.

He can’t stop having dreams about a skinless figure.

It touches his face gently. When it does, he vomits ticks or leeches, depends on the day. They spill into his hands and he is left there. Staring at them. Writhing, they slip through the fingers of his cupped palms. He always wakes before they reach the ground.

**

On waking, the first thing he notices is that the grass is trying to reclaim the house.

He knows that he is in a house because of the soft mattress beneath him, pressing up and into his body as if in some kind of forgiveness. It’s a single room cabin, a dirt floor, a single bed, a kitchen to the far wall. Incredibly bright with three windows of varied size above the sink. As he opens his eyes, the first thing he sees are sparse but tall green stalks brushing the leg of a sturdy looking olbio-wood table, a messy collection of bloodied bandages, glass bottles, and bowls resting atop its surface. A flower dots the top of only one of the stalks, its petals no bigger than the nail of his thumb. He hears two soft voices, speaking from somewhere above him. Darkness clouds his vision as soon as he realizes he is awake.

When his eyes open again he is already in the process of sitting up, holding his shoulder with a grunt. He fully gains consciousness in the middle of the action, in time to barely recognize a cry of surprise as something clatters to the floor. He swings his head around, right hand automatically going to his holster despite the burning pain the motion conjures. Empty.

He turns sharply and it’s you. It’s you, again, looking all the more surprised at his sudden waking than you had when he was dragging his half-dead body towards you.

Your hands are pressed against your stomach, the wooden bowl of some sludge-like salve at your booted feet. Your eyes are wide, frozen as if he had a weapon to draw. The skin beneath them is puffy and discolored with exhaustion. Your dress is now smeared with what he can only assume is his own rust-brown blood. The dress presses tightly against your chest with your heavy breathing. Mando’s gaze catches there, for a moment, in spite of himself, before traveling again to your face. Wide eyes, plush lips slightly parted--your hair is in a loose bun that has barely managed to contain itself, escaped pieces gently framing your face. You’re one of the most beautiful creatures he has ever seen. His resolve hardens immediately because of it.

You press your lips together firmly in annoyance, almost in tandem with Mando clenching his own jaw. You stoop low to snatch the bowl and pestle from where they lay at your feet, irritation radiating off of you in waves.

“You’re taking my bed, Mandalorian.” Your voice is steady for the most part, but falters slightly with his name. It betrays the fear in your eyes, nearly masked by the tightness in your tone. Regardless, you persist. Straitening with the bowl pressed between your hip and forearm, you  gesture with your free hand towards where he is still reaching for a non-existent weapon. “It is unbecoming to start our acquaintance with threats.”

“I was here with a… a companion,” his voice sounds absolutely ragged over the vocoder. Mando whips his head back around to scan the room, heart pounding. His shoulder feels like it is on fire. He begins to struggle to his feet. He fails.

“The little one is fine, resting.” You blow an offending strand of hair off your forehead with a frustrated, upward huff. “You’ve been out for days. We’ve been up every night trying to keep you breathing. Frankly, I could care less if you choked on your own tongue.” Your voice gets less biting when you’re facing him directly, as if the courage for your snark is dependent on not being able to see him. You continue, “Am’ile, however, is an old friend of an acquaintance of yours. You’d care to show her a little more respect.”

With another huff, you’re turning away and pushing through the piece of fabric that functions as a door. He watches you as you reappear through the wide window stationed just above the kitchen sink. Mando sags against the bed’s simple headrest.

There are little pieces of stained glass that have been strung from the tops of the windows, dripping down like raindrops. He watches them for a moment, clattering into one another. Mando swallows, shaking his head. He tries to take a few deep breaths before attempting to stand once again. He isn’t successful.

“I wouldn’t test that one, Mandalorian.” This voice is much older, slightly raspy in a way that automatically demands a lowered head or a knee pressed into the earth. A long-fingered hand pushes past the fabric still swaying from your exit. An elderly Bardottan woman enters, regarding him a moment. The child coos in the arm she cradles him with, his hands reaching out towards Mando. The Bardottan smiles, wobbling over to the bed and laying the child at his side. “She doesn’t like it when kindness is taken for granted.”

She turns, pulling out a chair from the table and sitting down with a sigh. He can tell her age by the halting way she walks, one four-fingered hand resting against her lower back, her leathered yellow-green skin’s pale stripes dulled by time. “Am’ile Dovalien of Naboo. I am an old friend of Caraynthia Dune, from her Republic days,” she takes her time with her words, and then even more to regard him. “You’re looking rough for wear, Mandalorian. I’d ease up on that shoulder before you put all the girl’s work to waste.”

An old friend of Cara’s. He doesn’t know why it’s surprising by any means. Cara’s discussed her time before the war enough, and it is not like she is… inhibited, he guesses, is the right word…by the Way. So of course she would have “old friends.” Good friends. Maybe it’s surprising because he feels like there are similarities between the two of them that he has not shared with anyone else, odd to think she is able to having something that he does not.

“Who is she? The girl?” The words leave his mouth abruptly, before he can think them through. They hang there for a moment before Am’ile answers.

The Bardottan says your full name, he’s noticed she has a habit of doing so. Between that and her syrupy accent, it lends anyone she mentions in the conversation a kind of regal stature that he can’t help but admire. “She is my student. I hope she didn’t… frighten you too much. It’s rare we get visitors from outside the local village. You’re the first of her kind she’s encountered in almost six years now.”

The child chirps, clambering onto Mando’s chest. The pain is sharp and immediate. The man makes a sound he can’t control, using his good arm to pull the kid off and tuck him into his side. “Thank you, for all of this.” He’s ashamed he didn’t manage to get it out sooner, his lips pressed together firmly under the beskar. “I… I had to retreat before I could complete the job. I don’t have many credits on me but—"

“Do not, Mandalorian,” Am’ile shakes her head. “I would be insulted if you do.” She stands with a struggle, using the edge of the table to help herself up and waddling to his bedside, extending both boney arms for the child. Mando does what he can to help prop him back into the crook of Am’ile’s elbow. “Keep resting, if today’s treatments take well, you can start repairing your ship by tomorrow morning. The locals are a secluded people, they do not like strangers staying for very long.”

“Thank you,” he says. She hums something low in her throat in affirmation, flicking her hand in Mando’s direction with her back already turned. The fabric of the door only stills after a few minutes of swaying.

**

After your first—well, technically second—encounter, you don’t really make conversation when you come in to check on Mando’s healing and clean up the medical station Am’ile and you had established on the kitchen table. It’s all matter-of-fact, from the tilt of your shoulders to the set of your jaw. When you do directly address him, he notices that you stare at the space just above his helmet, never into the t-shaped visor. Never right at him.

He deserves it, he supposes. Never one for talking unless necessary, he’s fine with the complete silence interspersed with: “Okay breathe in, breathe out,” as you check if his stitches can hold, or “try and stand up, walk around the table” hovering a few inches away in case he falls. It seems like Am’ile is the one who takes over the more internal matters, coming in to check on his lung capacity, if his ribs were healing in the proper place.

Apparently the child had to mend the worst of it, now all that was left over was a grinding, bone-deep soreness that comes with being put together from the inside out, as well as some particularly nasty scrapes, the surface remnants of the near-fatal stab wounds. The child had tried to heal those, too, later that morning, but Mando pushed his tiny hand aside, just as he had done the first time.

“No need to waste your energy, womp rat. Save that up for someone else,” he pats the kid’s head as he say this, placing him on the ground with a wince to toddle around the room in search of trouble.

You have your back to the both of them, washing a bowl once filled with Mando’s dirty bandages. You pause as he says this, head tilted slightly over your left shoulder as if contemplating turning around. After a beat, you seem to reevaluate and continue washing the blood out of the bowl, scrubbing at it with a brush heavy with soap. You’re wearing a different dress now, looser, cinched at the waist with a green-brown apron. You dry the bowl with the corner of your apron and start on the next object, a gleaming pair of surgical scissors.

It seems as if you’ve just come from a bath, hair wet and tucked behind your ears as you work. When you first entered, he thinks he heard you mention something about it, now that his condition had stabled. It was mumbled so quietly he almost believes he’s imagined it.

He wants to ask you where the glass hanging from the window is from, how you managed to string it up so perfectly that when the suns get to a certain place, as they were in that moment, it sent a kaleidoscope of colors onto the floor. A kaleidoscope of colors that dapple your face in such a beautiful pattern he half expects he’s in the middle of some torturous spice-dream.

When you turn to leave again, Mando turns his head to stare forward, feigning sleep.

**

When Am’ile confirms that the treatments have taken well, pointing out all the signs to you as you stand back with your arms crossed and nod intermittently, a diligent student. A part of him is okay with being a living anatomy model as long as it means you actually looking at him.

Once given the clear, he spends the next two days working on the Crest. It was, thankfully, in much better shape than he thought. A bit difficult to go about making the repairs the first day with one of his arms in a sling, but breathing is easier and the deep pain has been replaced with a dull ache that is less difficult to push aside for the time being.

You bring him meals and check his stitches at the crash site—you seem to continuously clarify that you’re only doing this because Am’ile’s hips cannot take the inclines of the hills anymore. Every time you hike up the grassy slope towards him you seem to get a little bit braver, looking him evenly in the eyes for short periods each time.

He’s grateful to see you each time. It’s been a long time since he’s eaten anything that wasn’t from a cantina or a freeze-dried bar. Even though he eats quickly, pushing his helm just below the tip of his nose to do so, he savors it all the same. You turn your back to him as he eats for privacy, playing with the child.

His third morning working on the ship, he gets up at dawn. He’s restless and wants to finish the build as soon as possible, get out of here before Greef Karga starts getting antsy with his absence. A very small, very weak part of himself also knows the longer he stays, the more he becomes a threat to a place like this. It’s too warm. Too gentle. He doesn’t belong here. Something about his presence is disruptive. He just knows this.

Mando still can’t bear the weight of the beskar against his bad shoulder. He pulls on the button-down tunic Am’ile had asked him to wear in order to get better access to his stitches with a wince. It’s a dark green kind of fabric, loose enough to fit both him and the bulk of his bandages comfortably. He’s still a bit light headed on his way to the Crest, but once settled beneath the hull he’s fine.

You come up with breakfast at around the same time as the previous day, setting it on the ground a few feet away from him as if he were some kind of cornered animal you were trying to lull into some sense of false security.

The child babbles something unintelligible from your arms as you turn your back and sit down in the grass. The child had been spending nights with you and Am’ile in the neighboring cabin, since Mando had taken the cabin you’d been sleeping in previously. Am’ile told Mando it was so he could get the rest he needs, without having to worry about the little one. One glance at the way you act around the kid makes it plainly clear that you’re absolutely smitten. It’s hard not to be.

Mando eats quickly, lowering his helmet and turning to give you the clear. You don’t respond, too consumed with attempting to thwart the child’s attempts to catch a hopping bug the size of your palm. You’re wearing a tank top and long, brown cargo pants, seated with your legs crossed and leaning forward every so often to plop the kid back into your lap every time he toddles too far.

There’s a moment where he allows his eyes to trace the elegant curve of your shoulders. Something in his throat tightens. Shaking his head as if to clear it, he pushes himself to his feet and resumes the task at hand. Leaning down to pick up a replacement panel, he straightens with a grunt.

“What are you doing?” Your voice surprises him enough to drop the paneling. It barely misses his booted foot. Small hands wrap around both his biceps, pulling him back. “Stars, stop that you’re gonna—”

And suddenly you’re in front of him, a whole head shorter yet already fussing over him like some family pet. You keep talking to yourself as you do so, maneuvering him to sit with his back leaning against the Crest, kneeling beside him as you pop the buttons of his shirt open. It’s like you started in a moment of complete vindication, and how have to keep up the act despite a deflating confidence. “I feel like the best bounty hunter in the galaxy could maybe use some common sense after getting fresh stitches, just a thought but you obviously could care less…”

You keep talking, he knows that because he sees your mouth moving, but after that last word your hands are against his chest, unwrapping the bandages to check the punctured skin underneath. Your bare hands, on his bare chest. Any possible thought he could have formed after the fact left his head instantly.

He couldn’t even remember the last time someone had touched him, especially like this. Before, when you and Am’ile started patching him up, he was out cold. When you checked on his healing wounds the day before, you had politely asked him to remove his shirt and bandages with an undeniable warble in your voice, standing with your hands clasped behind your back and only glancing at his chest before instructing him to refresh his gauze.

They are soft and a bit colder than he’d expected. So soft. One hand is wrapped around his right trapezius, thumb resting in the dip of his collarbone, and the other cupping his left ribs as if he was trying to get away somehow. Something in him instantly stills. You keep your hands like that as you observe the wound. You give another huff,

“Don’t move.” You turn away, scooping up the kid and walking back down the hill.

He’s not sure if it’s in obedience to you or pure shock, but by the time you return, mumbling something about Am’ile taking over babysitting, he hasn’t moved a muscle. You dab on another layer of ointment, rewrapping his bandages. Satisfied with your work, you sniff, placing your hands on your hips to look back up at him. “What do you need lifted?”

Mando blinks, pausing long enough that you narrow your eyes, chin raised. “Well?”

After a beat, he gestures to the panel he dropped earlier. You both work together, in complete silence, for the rest of the day. 

When both suns sit low and heavy in the horizon, you raise your hand to your to your forehead and squint at the place where they are held by the two ragged lines of distant mountains. “It’s a strange kind of beauty, isn’t it.”

He looks at you, looking at the suns. When he doesn’t say anything, you wipe at the sweat and grease smeared across your forehead with the back of your forearm. Wordlessly, you brush your hands off on your pants twice before turning back down the hill.

Mando continues soldering wires. He only pauses an hour or so later, when he hears the song again. He puts down his tools and sits in the grass with his back to the Crest, staring out and into the mountain range before him, the two rocky faces cupping two entangled suns, one indistinguishable from the other. The song is as sweeping and ethereal as when he first heard it, heard you. He takes off his gloves, closes his eyes, and runs his fingers through the grass. He curls them into fists.

**

Later that night, he has to stumble out of the house and into one of the fields in order to keep the thoughts silent. He has the dream again, it is always impossible to keep sleeping after. He’d been up for hours at that point, trying to breathe through bursts of absolute, vision-blurring panic.

Usually he rests in hour-long bursts, whenever the time allows. He’s gone days without it, to the point that it’s more comfortable to refuse it than give in. It always gets worse when he allows himself to sleep at night. Whatever it is, it always gets worse.

But there’s nothing to fucking do here but think.

It’s the bed. There’s something maddening about your mattress. He hadn’t been touched by another, skin to skin, in so long--the trails of fire your gentle hands left made something in his lower abdomen squirm, restlessly. Hopelessly. Without thinking, he lifts his cock from the waistband of his pants.

Nothing in him can keep the images out. The curve of your knuckles brushing his collarbone. His hand rises in a hard stroke. The low hum you gave once you pushed aside his tunic, unraveling the bandages. Eyes searching for damage. Another stroke, this one even more forceful than the last. The light from the glass against your skin, against the elegant curve of your throat. His thumb comes up to catch the head, already seeping with pre-come. Your gentle palm, dwarfed by the bicep it was pressed against yet steady and determined all the same. He’s so hard it’s excruciating and—

That first morning. The way your chest pressed and swelled against the tight fabric of your bodice, your breasts nearly pushing themselves up and over the gentle ivory neckline with each inhale.  

“F-fuck. Fucking sick,” he chokes out in horror as he finishes, his cock pulsing in his hand, his releases onto the damp ground before him. Shame settles itself in place of the writhing desire in his stomach. It is a much deeper feeling, he realizes, as he lowers himself with barely enough energy to tuck himself back into his pants, wiping his hand on the grass already wet with dew.

The girl is just trying to piece you back together and this is all you can think? But he really can’t remember the last time he was touched. With such kindness. Your hands were the softest thing to grace his body for as long as he could possibly remember. He already knows that this, whatever it is, will be devastating. Absolutely devastating. For this reason, something in him will cling to it for as long as he can.

The cold ground welcomes him, it’s the only measure he is given to realize his skin has quickly grown feverish. He almost falls asleep, right there on the ground. But there’s a gentle cry, from the neighboring house, just across the field from his���er, your—cabin. A gentle cry that quickly turns into an all too familiar hiccuping wail. From where he is curled on the ground, he can see right through one of the house’s windows as a lantern flicks on.

It’s just your silhouette, backlit by a warm orange light. You pace in small circles, bouncing the child on your hip, occasionally leaning your head down in what he could only think is to whisper something, just for you and the child. To press a kiss to the dip of his wrinkled forehead. He calms quickly afterwards, but you keep walking anyway. It’s a strange beauty, being able to watch your two forms, the way they bend and lean into the other, rendered indistinguishable by the lantern’s low light. Mando stays there for a long time.

**

“What is that sound?”

It’s almost nightfall again, the next day. Both Am’ile and Mando are seated at the table in your cabin. The Bardottan woman is playing a card game across from him that he’s been silently observing as they wait for one of his final treatments to sink back in. No bacta, here. Am’ile informed him on his first day. Too isolated of a planet. Her remedies are equally good if not better treatment, just needing some patience.

The singing has started again. It’s the only hint of your presence he’s gotten since the morning, when you unceremoniously plopped a plate of food at the food of his bed and told him you had informed everyone to steer clear of the cabin so he could take his time eating without “that thing on your head.” It was the best meal he’d had in a long while, sugared bread with a fruit jam and a piece of meat that tasted like some kind of mutton.

You start singing right as the healing muscles in his right shoulder have started to go warm and tingly with the salve Am’ile applied. When she doesn’t remove her gaze from her cards, he asks her again.

“What is that sound?”

Am’ile glances up, regarding him for a moment. She says your name, softly, turning her horse-like head towards the window to stare out into the gently moving grass, the empty orange of sunset turning the cut faces of the mountains a dull purple. “It’s a traditional song, from her home planet. It’s how they would call in the seasons, pray for the weather they needed to survive—the people here ask her to sing at nightfall. They say she summons a calm night. When she first arrived it… took some negotiating to allow her to stay.” Am’ile has the gentle, warbling voice of an old grandmother. There is another note from outside, long and slow and beautiful, ending in a sharp, high whoop that reverberates against the sides of the hills. “We look after their children when they go for hunts, it’s how we pay for our place here. This planet has been untouched for centuries, but the beasts are fierce. Would put any Endorian boar-wolf to shame.”

“And why is she here, with you?”

Am’ile is quiet for a moment. Her gaze remains fixed out the window. “She is escaping from a new kind of debt, Mandalorian.” The phrasing hangs in the air, static with its own weight. “The, ah… ex-Imperial officials who turned into warlords after the Civil War...” She looks like she does not want to continue any further. Mando waits in silence. She caves, they always tend to.

“The girl was a nursemaid, by label. They have drugs now, that tell your body you are with child. Lactation, pain of the body so deep it keeps you complacent. It’s a fetish for them, functional for their wives with babies they want nothing to do with. Miserable existence. Caraynthia Dune and I did much work trying to free as many girls as possible years ago, when she was still a soldier. I’d given up the fight, started this farm—began working as a healer for the locals, a peaceful people. The girl found me herself. I still have no idea how. She’s a fighter. Stronger than most any I’ve come across.”

Am’ile’s eyes grow sharp in a way Mando never expected they could. He’s taken aback momentarily, she can’t see his hands flex from under the table. “I have trained her to the best of my abilities, she’d be accepted as a distinguished medic at any Republic facility without a bat of the eye.” She doesn’t have to see Mando’s face to know that he’s in the process of rolling his eyes. “The girl is in danger staying here—they don’t care about what they’d consider to be former cattle as long as they don’t mock the warlords by staying sedentary. She may not be an engineer, but she’s professional--one of the best medics I’ve trained. Kindest, too. You’ll need someone to look after that lung,” Am’ile leans forward, resting a boney elbow against the table and extending a long forefinger to circle the space in front of Mando’s chest. She continues, “Amazing with children. Can hold her own well enough in a fight. Please don’t ever tell her I’ve told you this, but she has asked me to ah… propose this to you. Since the first night of your arrival she has asked to help on board. I know you’ve been looking for a… a… caretaker. The girl is it, Mandalorian. I know you’re an honorable man. I know you would treat her fairly, with kindness. It’s what she deserves. She’s all you could possibly ask for.”

The words hang in the air for a long time. Mando leans both forearms against the table, looking down at his loosely clasped hands. He takes five breaths, then looks back up at Am’ile. “One of the best medics you’ve trained?”

“The best,” Am’ile smiles to herself. It appears as if she already knows his answer. “Without hesitation, the best.”

“With that bedside manner?”

There is a beat of complete silence. Then Bardottan woman bursts into gleeful laughter, nodding her head as she does. The joy of it is enough to fill the entire room.

Mando looks down at his hands and allows himself a small, private smile. It was the closest thing to: yes. Absolutely, yes, that he’s brave enough to voice.

**

He can’t stop having dreams about a skinless figure. In it, he is Din, again. For the first time in a long time.

He can’t stop having dreams about a skinless figure. He is kneeling in prayer.

He can’t stop having dreams about a skinless figure. She touches his face gently. He reaches out to her.

[boiling-paint]

Please do elaborate about LL!Scar and Bad by Deluxe Royal, I'm interested 👀

Ohooho. You got it! I uh... went ham,

*claps* OKAY! SO,

It all starts with the sounds.

The theme of this music is almost cartoonish in the way it wants to portay 'big, bad, evil' (chanting in a low chorus like a boogeyman "im bad I'm bad as bad can be." behind the main voice.) It reminds me of "How Bad Can I Be?" Which, ahem, while a meme song fits Scar's happy-go-lucky attitude that he upholds regardless of the guts and gore of the situation.

With a dramatic western attitude, the voice is very confident in his own image. It just screams Scar. Big Bad Scar trying to be spooky in that disney villain way he admires and reflects in his video and performance style. Its natural for him, but hes also careful with his words. He pauses, thinks, stalls for time when he speaks to people because if they get him rambling he'll give it all away. He is very very cautious this season in that sense.

Now, the lyrics! Oo I shiver at how well they fit.

If you'd like, we can imagine this "devil" as Grian. People have consistently seen him as a threat, Scott even dramatically and repeatedly calling him a monster. Hes death itself- the one who started it all.

Or, it can simply be other reds. People that Scar so far seems to be cautious of, but never fully intimidated by.

[I made the devil run

I gave him poison just for fun

I had one friend, now there's none

I made the devil run]

The last two refer closely to the comparison of the first season to this one. Grian was quite literally his only true ally, and now Grian frequently leaves him behind at any given moment. It's not fully Scar's fault, but Grian does take some care in talking and making deals with Scar. The game has changes course and they're keeping distant tabs on one another. Scar currently drives people away from staying at his mountain, despite claiming he wants friends. And for some reason (could even be dumb luck) Joel the first and possibly most unstable Red Lifer, lives right next to him and hasn't lifted a finger yet. This I'm certainly exaggerating, but I wonder how cautious Joel is of Scar ("I made the devil run.")

These next 2 lines are the only ones that dont fit easily, as Scar is incredibly clumsy lmfAO. However, I think it speaks poetically with 3 and 4.

[I broke so many bones

But none of them were ever my own

They were an army, I was alone

I broke so many bones]

From Scar and Grians perspective things are very, very light in s1. It does not apply to the others'. In the previous season Scar was terrifying. Ren and others wanted to protect their friends and stay together. Scar wanted to win or put on a show trying. It's why him and Grian make such a good team— they know there are limits to how they can rely on one another.

From the other perspectives all Scar did was talk people out of their resources and scheme to destroy them, regardless of any sort of spoken friendships. He was very, very dangerous. He broke many structural bones so-to-speak in the other teams, including trust and physical resources.

And in the end? It was Scar's little team against Rens whole army that won 3rd Life. ("They were an army, I was alone, I broke so many bones.")

The CHORUS IS MY FAVORITE THO.

[I'm bad, as bad can be

So bad that it's hard to believe

Oh, what they say about me

I'm bad, take a look and see

So bad that it's hard to believe

I don't care what they say about me]

Scar this season is lying to everyone around him. People are cautious, but only the very, very perceptive ones (to name a few: Etho and Scott) are actually catching Scar in his lies. Even then he doesn't let up his own act. This gives him such a good facade.

People are going to underestimate him. Hes so polite to some and to others hes burning them at the stake. Other people talking about Scar are going to find plot holes, twists and turns in attitude that just don't make sense. No one will know what to believe or not. His kindness feels genuine, but so do his threats. ("So bad that it's hard to believe what they say about me.") His gentle attitude makes it really difficult to grasp his violent intentions at times.

And recently, especially with the destruction of a recent horse he seemed to be attached to, he's revealed a little to others about his values. "So bad that it's hard to believe, I don't care what they say about me." He is first and foremost a businessman and a showman. If people are scared? Great! If people think him kind? That's just good for business.

That's the most frightening thing about him being isolated this season: He doesn't care as long as he gets what he wants. But he'll pretend he will up until the second he knows it doesn't matter. No attachments, all deals. If people don't show him kindness he remembers and returns the favor later, and explicitly states he will frequently in his perspective.

Now, to remember 3rd Life S1 again:

[I watched an empire fall

I stormed the gate and scared the walls

They wouldn't share, so I took it all

I watched an empire fall]

A refusal of resources, a few missteps and misconceptions here and there and they had a war on their hands. To Ren, he was fighting for his team and his empire. To Scar, he was made into enemy #1 for... what reason? They did nothing wrong! Just having a bit of fun. All of this is a game and something Scar's character takes much more joy in than some other perspectives. It's not a game in some views, which would make him... what?

Crazy? Literally insane in some sense that he would treat this battlefield like middleschool capture the flag?

They targeted him and Scar simply didn't like it, so he took up arms with Grian and the rest and killed Ren himself. ("They wouldn't share, so I took it all, I watched an empire fall.")

[I'm bad, as bad can be

So bad that it's hard to believe

Oh, what they say about me]

You can't trust what anyone says about Scar, including Scar himself.

(I'm bad, I'm bad, as bad as can be)

I'm bad, take a look and see

So bad that it's hard to believe

I don't care what they say about me]

And he doesn't care about rumors as long as he gets what he wants. He'll take advantage of them.

Akdhakd also this isnt a dig and moreso just a dramatic retelling of how I think this song brings out a more dark idea of Scar's character. All in good fun :). Thank you for enabling me PFTHAHAHA

[cryoculus]

oddity - xiao/reader

one of my closest pals is celebrating their birthday, and i took it upon myself to write a little lantern rite piece! i don't usually post my stuff on tumblr, but it wouldn't hurt to try ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

pairing: xiao/gn!reader word count: 3,549 words premise: you and him are nothing but outsiders beneath the sea of lanterns — that’s all there is to it. ao3 link here!

“Traveler, what brings you here?”

The wind whistles through the reeds of Dihua Marsh when you hear his voice. The yaksha emerges from the shadows that cloak his form, piercing yellow eyes studying you with rapt attention. Your chest heaves as your sword glimmers out of existence before wiping a sheen of sweat off your brow. A smile graces your face — one that makes him arch an eyebrow. 

“Xiao,” you acknowledge him with a nod. “Just clearing out hilichurl camps for a commission.”

“And your friend?” he asks, arms crossed. “The loud one that floats around?”

You immediately think about how quick Paimon ditched your daily commissions just to get a head-start with the festivities down at the harbor. You didn’t particularly mind the fairy’s excitement, but it was a little lonely without her squawks of encouragement as you shilled monster after monster for the sake of scraping up some mora. But the peace of mind offered by Paimon’s absence is something you liked to indulge in every once in a while as well. Instances like this could bring about new experiences.

Such as running into the Vigilant Yaksha himself, for example.

“Paimon’s gotten quite engrossed with the Lantern Rite.” A lone sigh flees from your lips as you your gaze rivets upward. South from here, the lanterns offered to heavens can be still seen — even all the way in Bishui Plain. They dot the sky even brighter than the stars, burning through the darkness of the night so the heroes could find their way home. 

Somewhere much nearer is Wangshu Inn, its massive tree rising above the fog that began to roll in come sundown. You aren’t too far from his stronghold, but what reason does Xiao have to crawl out of his seemingly-eternal solitude? Last you’ve seen him was during that whole Starsnatcher fiasco, and you didn’t think you would cross paths again so soon. But the curious glow of his eyes — devoid of the indifference he’s worn like armor — tickles the back of your head. 

If you’re able to…could you try to convince Xiao to go with you?

Right. Verr Goldet asked that specific favor the last time Huai’an commissioned you to repair the Inn’s rickety staircase (again). You took her request without a second thought, despite being wholly unsure of how you’re even going to drag an adeptus back to Liyue Harbor. Though the rift between the land’s guardians and its people has long been mended, Xiao’s hostility wouldn’t be so easily quelled. But it’s as if the stars have guided your fates to intertwine tonight — holding each other’s prudent gazes as you both waited for the other to speak. 

Xiao is the first to break the silence. 

“I see,” he murmurs, resting his back against a sturdy tree. He draws his eyes up for only a moment before meeting yours once more. “Don’t you have a festival to celebrate, Traveler? If my memory serves me right, there’s only a few hours left before they release those pyro flowers into the sky. It’s…a popular spectacle among humans.”

You crane your head slightly, not quite catching his drift. Pyro flowers? A popular spectacle among…  

“You mean fireworks?” you snort.

“Yes, whatever those are.” Though his face doesn’t bear any hint of being flustered, the tips of Xiao’s ears turn the lightest tinge of red — barely visible in the lacking light, but you see it regardless. The yaksha mumbles something under his breath before saying, “I assume a lot of people await your return. What are you doing squandering your time here in the marsh, then?”

If Paimon were here, she would have swooped in and taken this as her one and only chance to make good on your unspoken promise to Verr Goldet. Even in the absence of your floating companion, you begin to consider your chances as well. It’s not like you assured the brooding adeptus would be present during the Rite. Just that you’d try to make sure he was there. 

And try, you did when you ask, “I was wondering if you’d want to come along, actually.”

You’re more than aware how…forward your invitation just sounded, but it’s not like you minded whatever answer he’s going to give you. In all honesty, it’d be easier if he rejected the offer and went on his way — doing whatever retired adepti do with their thousand years’ worth of free time. But as you steel yourself for his typical, cold-hearted dismissal, Xiao tilts his chin in the direction of the lanterns released en-masse in the south, gaze softening with a tenderness that’s all sorts of foreign to you. 

“I suppose I can spare a few hours.”

The lights down the docks seem a little too bright, and the jovial music rings a little too loudly when you’re conscious of an introverted companion. Xiao’s aversion to human interaction is no secret to anyone, but the adeptus manages to play it cool as you wade across a throng of festival-goers. He flinches a little when strangers bump into him, but does nothing to antagonize them. (Although you do hear the slightest hint of a growl when the stranger in question doesn’t apologize for the inconvenience.) Nonetheless, you make sure to hover around close to make sure you don’t lose him in the crowd. 

You consider holding his hand for but a sliver of a moment before chucking the idea out of the window. Xiao would probably hurl you into the next world if you touched him unsolicited, and the mere thought sends an unpleasant shiver down your spine. 

It doesn’t take long for you to spot Paimon in the midst of it all — wearing one of those peace talismans around her neck as she nibbled on a stick of grilled tiger fish. The fairy perks up at the sight of you, but she nearly gapes when she sees who it is on your trail. 

“You managed to drag that loner here?!” she shrieks, but the shock in her voice was thankfully obscured by the loud music. “How much almond tofu did you give him? Paimon bets it takes an army to make enough almond tofu to convince him to go out of hiding!” 

“No such coercion happened for them to bring me here,” Xiao clarifies. “I simply want to witness how things have been faring in the harbor since Rex Lapis’ departure. Hmph. Humans still do so much all in the name of traditions that have long lost their meaning.”

Paimon gasps, as if personally offended. “Lost their meaning…? You! You have no idea how important the Lantern Rite is to Liyue Harbor’s citizens, do you? Come on, Traveler!” The fairy huffs, tugging on your arm insistently. “Let’s enjoy the rest of the festival without the immortal party pooper.”

You gulp. “Paimon—”

“Honorary taste-tester, there you are!”

The familiar lilt of Xiangling’s voice pierces through the deafening melodies of the Rite. She bounds towards your little group with a devious smile curled across her lip — eyes shining with enough intent to scare you. Paimon is a bit more oblivious to the young chef’s intentions. Your companion even greets her once she was close enough.

“I have a huge custom order for the Qixing dinner at midnight, and I was wondering if you could try out my stuff!” She hums, spinning Paimon around gleefully enough to make the fairy forget that she was even frustrated with Xiao. Xiangling, however, notices belatedly that the said adeptus is in her company. “Oh, the guy from Wangshu Inn! What brings you here?”

“Nothing that would interest you,” the yaksha grumbles with a clipped tone. “Didn’t you say something about taste-testing for the Qixing?”

“Ah, right! Traveler!” Xiangling turns to you. “Can I borrow Paimon for a while? I’ll make sure my dad doesn’t turn her into emergency food. I promise!” 

“Hey!” Paimon protests. “Who’s turning who into emergency food?” 

With the slightest nod of your head, however, the chef is already on her merry way — dragging poor Paimon back to Chihu Rock despite her plethora of complaints. You sigh, telling yourself you’d make it up to her after you’ve attended to Xiao. Speaking of which…

“Is there anything you’d like to do?” you ask, eyes darting around for anything worthwhile to show the adeptus. When you spot Ruijin somewhere at the end of the baywalk, your brain clicks in place. “How about you and I play a few rounds of Theater Mechanicus?”

Xiao’s nose wrinkles at the unfamiliar name. “Is that another one of those strange human contraptions?” 

“Uh… You can say that.”

You’ve played a couple of rounds with Xingqiu yesterday when the Feiyun heir practically dragged you here after collecting your rewards from the Adventurers’ Guild. So to speak, tower defense games were not your strong suit. At first, dozens of imaginary enemies have slipped past your elemental wards all because of your poor strategizing skill. It’s a good thing that Xingqiu was quick to pick up on the rules, though. He managed to win you both enough peace talismans to make the Xiao Market turn maximum profit. 

Your current comrade, however, is probably just as terrible as you are.

“I don’t get this,” Xiao snarls, banging a fist on the wooden table. “Why can’t I just attack the enemies myself when they arrive? The towers are too weak to defend anything.” 

Ruijin chuckles, ruffling the yaksha’s hair as if he was a child. “Patience. The more you play, the stronger the mechanici become. Besides, warriors grow to be more powerful the longer they stay on the battlefield. You know that pretty well, right?”

You have to nudge Xiao’s leg from underneath the table to keep him from pouncing at the game master right there. When you manage to catch his gaze, you shoot him a stern look to keep him in check. Deep inside, though, you’re actually panicking. What if he turns the harbor into some anemo wasteland all because of a silly board game? If that happens, Zhongli might just declare you persona non grata even if he was already retired. 

Thankfully, Xingqiu’s knowledge about Theater Mechanicus has rubbed off on you enough to win you a round. Ruijin rewards you both with only half the amount of talismans you garnered when teaming up with the Feiyun heir, but Xiao doesn’t really need to know that. He stares at the jade-carved sigils disinterestedly before pocketing them in his garbs, walking away without a word. As your shoulders droop, you sigh and shoot Ruijin an apologetic look before chasing after your charge.

“Sorry if that wasn’t really your type of past time,” you tell him, matching the adeptus’ pace as he marches forward. “We could always try other—”

“If you’re going to play diplomat between myself and the harbor, listen here,” Xiao interrupts, shooting you a yellow-eyed stare. “Neither of us belong in this city. You’re an outlander, and I’m an adeptus — two creatures that aren’t meant to delve too deep into human affairs. And if you have even an ounce of respect left for our respective origins, you won’t tell me off for being needlessly hostile.”

Huh. So he’s aware that he’s being needlessly hostile. 

Though he spoke each word with an even-toned seriousness, all you could hear was a boy that didn’t want to be scolded at. You were a bit surprised to see him lose his patience over such a trivial thing earlier, too. Your mouth quivers into a soft smile, marveling at how human Xiao can be despite insisting he was anything but. 

“I’m heading up to Mount Tianheng for a while,” he announces once the two of you reach the end of the road. “Are you coming or not?”

You have half the mind to tease him for checking in on you despite the fact that he can pretty much leave you in the dust if he wanted to. Xiao glances at you impatiently when you don’t give him an answer, and you decide to push away any thought of discouraging him for another time. 

“Sure. What are you going to—”

Several things happen all at once. Xiao cuts your words short when he dons his mask, clouds of miasma curling around his form in black wisps. He scoops your knees from underneath you, cradling you to his chest faster than you can blink. And you can only gape in disbelief as he princess-carries you across the city — jumping from roof to roof with the grace of a feline. Xiao doesn’t spare you any looks the entire time, keeping his eyes forward as he holds you securely in his grasp. This reminds you a little of the time he saved you from falling to your death when the Jade Chamber collapsed, but you dared not think of it too much. 

You resign yourself to the fact that there isn’t much you can do when Xiao is in Bane-of-All-Evil form and observe the way the tattoos on his arm glow with each precise movement instead. In spite of the corrosive energy emanating from the rest of his body, the aura that those blue-green marks emit is…serene. It’s not all that different from the feeling you get whenever you stand near a Statue of the Seven in Mondstadt. Hm. Maybe Venti’s personally keeping an eye on this one. 

The yaksha only stops when he’s gotten to a high enough vantage point, setting you back to your feet. You’re just about to thank Xiao for the ride, but you notice the way his knees buckle once his mask dissolves from his face.

You’re quick to rush to his side, supporting his weight with yours as he shoots you a disgruntled look. All those millennia of keeping to himself probably made Xiao unused to your efforts, but you don’t give him enough room to complain. 

“You’re hurt,” you observe as you help him down to the grass. “I thought I was just seeing things when we went to the karma-heavy cavern, but that obviously isn’t the case. Does that have anything to do with the Abyss?” 

“You think I’d let myself be tainted with that kind of corruption?” Xiao scoffs, chest heaving as he catches his breath. “This miasma…is all my own. This is the price I have paid for eons of endless slaughter — I’ve already told you that, haven’t I?”

You shoot him a pointed look. “Hasn’t anyone told you that you’re too hard on yourself? No wonder Zhongli is still worried about you until now. The medicine he asked me to give — it’s for that…miasma, isn’t it?”

 Xiao closes his eyes, sighing. “Traveler, I don’t wish to discuss this.”

“Well, you don’t have to.”

That makes him stare back at you inquisitively. Xiao’s gaze narrows slightly as you lift your hands — palms facing the clueless adeptus before you. Your eyes flutter closed, recalling the way you purified a dragon’s tears all those months ago. This is essentially the same, right? Xiao is a creature who has borne the weight of suffering for countless millennia, much like Dvalin when the Abyss manipulated him into their favor. You managed to purge the murky tintage of their corruption despite the odds being against you. 

Who’s to say that easing Xiao’s suffering — even just for a moment — is impossible?

Flecks of starlight dance across the tips of your fingers, glowing in time with the marks of anemo he bears on his arm. Xiao watches you, stunned into silence as he lets you do as you please. He spots a brush of qingxin flowers just a few meters away, but the gentle breeze that wafts across his face makes him feel like he’s not sitting atop Mount Tianheng, but on another peak entirely. When the yaksha closes his eyes, the qingxin blooms have morphed into gentle cecilias, dancing to the rhythm of a lone bard’s lyre. 

Peace, he thinks. He hasn’t known peace in a long, long time. 

When Xiao opens his eyes again, it’s to the feel of his head resting on top of a plush surface. The moment his mind registers your face staring down at him with a kind smile, he nearly scrambles out of your lap out of reflex, but you keep him securely in place. 

“You napped for quite a while there,” you inform him, one hand smoothing down his hair. “Any interesting dreams you want to share?” 

He relaxes back onto the grass when he realizes there’s no escaping you. This oddly reminds him of the quieter days of the Archon War, when Guizhong would let him doze on her lap for hours on end. 

“I’d like to…apologize,” he whispers.

“For what?”

After a few moments, Xiao sits upright and this time you don’t stop him. Demonic yellow eyes turn to the vastness of harbor before him — reminding him that the war has long ended, and a new era is in bloom. 

“When I told your friend that these traditions have lost their meaning… I bear no ill will to the words,” he murmurs, fingers grazing the blades of grass beneath the both of you. The lanterns have grown in number this year, and they’re much more beautiful compared to when he watched them every year from his balcony in Wangshu Inn. “They offer their lanterns, they offer their wishes to lead their heroes back home. But humans have always enjoyed the leisure of being blissfully ignorant.

“Only a handful of adepti have survived to this day. The heroes they sing their praises to have long passed — unable to hear a word of their gratitude. So forgive me if I deem such traditions pointless.” He closes his eyes and thinks of all he’s lost — his fellow yakshas and the gods that have fallen to defend Liyue alongside Rex Lapis. Though he’s convinced himself he’s already desensitized, Xiao still feels the slightest twinge in his chest. “It’s not as if we ever expected recompense for our deeds. We protected what needed protecting because it is our duty. Nothing more, nothing less.”

He expects you to wear the crestfallen look that Verr Goldet always shows him whenever he rejects her invitations to come along to the Lantern Rite. Xiao has been faced with that expression year after year by countless others, and he thinks it would be no different if you look at him the same way, too. But instead of a tight-lipped frown, your mouth twitches into a grin — barely containing your own laughter as the adeptus starts to glare at you.

“Oh no, I didn’t think someone like you would take that so literally,” you say, wiping a tear off your face. “Xiao, listen to me. The Lantern Rite isn’t just for thanking those who protected Liyue; it’s also to honor their memory. Sounds to me like you’re really downplaying how much the people respect the adepti. Isn’t that little truce with Ningguang enough proof of that?”

Xiao stares at you listlessly, and gets the feeling that he’s being made fun of. “I…might have failed to consider it in that light.”

You sigh, pulling your knees to your chest as you rest your chin on top. “So Zhongli isn’t the only adeptus who has rocks for brains here.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing! Say, do you want to let me hitch another ride and we can craft some lanterns down at the harbor? My treat.” 

He decides to overlook the backhanded insult you just made about himself and his lord. This is an era of peace — everyone jokes about things like that more often now. And though it comes as quite the pain to him, Xiao thinks it was time he learns the way of the people from this era sooner rather than later. 

As you scribble your own wishes on the sides of the lantern you crafted, Xiao watches attentively on the sidelines. You told him to write down his own as well, but people like him only wish to serve the purpose he’s been summoned to make. Xiao has already fulfilled that eons ago.

When you both let the lanterns drift up above, the pyro flowers — fireworks, he mentally corrects — bloom across the night sky. They come in dazzling colors that make even him, an adeptus, wonder how human craftsmanship has evolved to this day. Perhaps you were right. Xiao does downplay many a detail about the people of Liyue, and that goes beyond their utter respect for the adepti. 

However, the citizens are the last thing on his mind as his yellow eyes continue to observe you — the soft gasp that escapes your lips when the display of fireworks has reached its end; the golden lanterns shining across your eyes as you beam with delight. Xiao doesn’t remember the last time he’s ever thanked anyone — fearful that they’ll react the same way he does when faced with pure gratitude. Would you turn away indifferently? Would you dismiss his sentiments even after quelling the darkness in his heart with a single move? In the end, he decides that none of it matters.

You and him are nothing but outsiders beneath the sea of lanterns — that’s all there is to it.

[ragewerthers]

To Defeat A Dragon

Summary: With the 100 year war behind them and the battles now lying more in the council room then on the battlefield, Sokka and Zuko take a moment to reminisce over the last few years.

However, reminiscing comes with a few surprises for Zuko when he forgets something rather important about the spars he used to have with Sokka.  But no worries... Sokka is more than happy to remind him.

A/n: Hello and Merry christmas, my friend!!!  I am the secret santa for @calmturquoise​ for the Squealing Santa 2020!  Thank you for giving me the chance to write something so sweet for these two and getting to join in on the fun of ATLA again!

I also want to thank @ticklygiggles​ for hosting this event again!  You're amazing and I’m so happy I got to participate in this once more!

The prompt was for some sweet, platonic Sokka and Zuko and I was so excited to get the chance to write these two!!!

You can also read on AO3 at: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28308495

Enjoy! :) 

Word Count: 2941

--------------------------------

“I think they’re deliberately starting to make those Council meetings longer,” Zuko grumbled, shifting uncomfortably where he now rested.  Currently, he was sat at the edge of the small turtleduck pond in the middle of the royal gardens.  Attempting to alleviate the ache in his back he went to sit up a little straighter.  The result was his back cracking in a way that was probably unhealthy for someone who was only twenty-three, but really he should’ve known this would be par for the course.  Growing up a child warrior really isn’t kind to the bones in the long run.  Wincing at the dull ache it left behind it wasn’t enough to distract him from the snort of his less than empathetic friend.

“No, buddy.  You’re just finally starting to become the cranky old man you always were inside,”  Sokka teased, practically laying beside Zuko as he reclined back on his elbows… before promptly collapsing next to the Firelord with a yelp.  A charlie ostrihorse had aggressively decided to seize the muscles in his shoulders and neck and all he could do was roll around in the grass like a crazy person.  Apparently, Zuko wasn’t the only one starting to feel the effects of those long meetings. 

Zuko instantly smirked at the reaction, happy to see Sokka getting a taste of the elderly lifestyle they now lived in apparently.  

“First of all, you deserve all of what’s happening to you right now,” Zuko said, waving his hand in the direction of Sokka’s prone form. “Second of all, what do you mean cranky?!  I’m a ray of sunshine.”

The words were spoken so deadpan that Sokka instantly snorted with a bit of pained laughter, still clutching the side of his neck as he lay on the ground.  “Don’t d-do thahat!  Can’t you s-see I’m hurting?!” he whined, though his smile still remained as he looked over at his best friend.  “But yes… how could I forget, oh great Firelord, that the sun is literally supposed to shine out of your butt?”

Zuko finally broke into a more open smile, sitting up a little straighter and nodding.  “And don’t you forget it,” he joked, getting another ridiculous giggle from Sokka.

After a few more minutes, the pain finally seemed to subside as the water tribesman was able to sit up with a wince.  Rolling his shoulder a bit to try and work out the last of the kink he couldn’t stop himself from letting out an almost wistful sigh.  “But isn’t it a bit sad?  I didn’t think it was possible to get aches and pains from just sitting!  Remember the good old days of our youth when we could spar for hours and hours and we wouldn’t even be phased?”

“What do you mean ‘the good old days of our youth’?  You’re only a year younger than me,” Zuko said with a little roll of his eyes as he began to remove his crown.  With no further meetings scheduled for the day he figured he might as well be comfortable. Setting it beside himself on the grass he settled back against the tree, ignoring the look Sokka was giving him.

“Hey!  We’re older than we were back then, right?  So… those are the days of our youth!  And you ignored the question,” he huffed.

“Oh… you were actually looking for an answer to your ramblings?” Zuko teased, a small smile fighting to quirk up the corners of his lips as he tried to ignore Sokka puffing his cheeks up like a toddler.  Oh yeah… the man obviously had matured so much since those days.  “Okay, okay.  I do remember.  I still consider myself proficient with the dual dao, but I think you’re right.  With sitting most of our days away, I’m sure it hasn’t done our skills any favors.”

Sokka’s pout instantly retreated, replaced with a light smile as Zuko agreed with him.  “Right?  Not to mention that it was always super satisfying every time I won which, I mean, was almost always after our first few spars,” he said smugly, causing the Firelord to instantly focus on him.

“I’m sorry… what?” Zuko asked, his eyes narrowed and voice almost dangerously low.

Sadly, enough time and shared moments between them meant that Sokka no longer feared the ‘fire scowl’.  Instead, his smug smile only grew.  “You heard me.  You may have handed my ass to me the first few times we spared, but after that I almost never lost another fight against you.”

“.... did that cramp do something to your memory?” Zuko wondered aloud.  “It must’ve because if memory serves, you almost never won against me.  You came close a number of times, but I was almost always the victor.”

However, regardless of how insistent his statement, that smug smile still remained on Sokka’s face as the Southern Water Tribesman sat up beside his friend.  “Nope.  I’m afraid old age has started to rust up those memories of yours, Sifu Hotman.  I won almost all of our spars and I can’t believe you’ve forgotten.”

“......... did you drink one of Uncle’s experimental teas again?  You know he almost killed himself doing that once!” Zuko warned, because that was the only way that Sokka could possibly think that he had won so many of their duels.

But something akin to worry grew in Zuko’s chest when he saw Sokka’s smile turning from smug to something a little more dangerous.

“Oh my dear Jerkbender.  I think you’ve forgotten that while you may have had the upperhand most of the time when we were dueling, I found out a secret move.  Because I remembered a universal truth about dragons.”

Oh yeah… Sokka definitely drank the experimental teas.  He’d warned uncle that cactus juice wasn’t to be messed with!

Zuko quirked an eyebrow at the comment before closing his eyes to calm his temper.  Taking in a deep breath before letting it out slowly, he turned once more to look at his friend.  “Okay, buddy.  Let’s get you to the healers,” he began gently, carefully reaching forward to rest his hand on Sokka’s shoulder.  “I think they have a remedy for thi-HIHIS?!”

Immediately his arm moved back from Sokka to cover his side as an electric feeling zipped through his veins.

Sokka was only just keeping himself from laughing beside him, his fingers still poised from where they’d managed a small nibbling pinch against the Firelord's lower ribs.  “The thing about dragons…,” Sokka continued, ignoring Zuko’s insistence on getting him medical attention.  “... is that all of them have a soft spot.  Once you find it… you can defeat it.  And I was lucky enough to find a dragon with more weak spots then most.”

Suddenly Zuko remembered almost every one of his spars with Sokka… and with it the memory of an evil, horrible truth.  Sokka had indeed won most of their spars after the first few.  Because that cheating dunderhead had accidentally found out that Zuko… was horrendously ticklish.

And judging from the look Sokka was leveling him with his friend was looking to make sure he definitely remembered this little fact.

“S-Sokka!  Sokka, listen to me… don’t you da-AH!” he shouted, rolling away just in time as Sokka attempted to tackle him into the grass.  Quickly, Zuko managed to get up onto his knees, trying to get his feet underneath him to stand, but fate decided to deal him a cruel hand once more.  His Fire nation robes for all the brilliance and regality they offered him to onlookers were far from practical.  Long and flowing silks were seen as traditional and although he’d made many reforms in his time already on the throne, fashion hadn’t quite made it to the table yet.  Thus, as he attempted to flee from his friend, his feet only managed to step on the front of his robes, stopping his movements and pausing him just long enough to land himself in Sokka’s clutches.

Before he knew it, two strong arms were already locked around his waist and Zuko attempted to use his words once more to try and plead his case for freedom.

Of course… when had that ever played out in his favor? “Sokka!  S-Sokka, I remember, okay?  You…. y-you don’t have to do this!” Zuko attempted to sound reasonable and less nervous then he felt, though he realized stuttering over his words lost a little bit of that authoritative tone he was aiming for.

“Oh, I realize I don’t have to do this,” Sokka teased, crooking the fingers of his left hand to press in just a little bit more against Zuko’s side making the young Firelord gasp and bite his lower lip to stay quiet.  “But at this point I feel it is my duty to remind Lord Jerkbender about this so he doesn’t forget who the number one spar master is.”

“Spar master isn’t even a thing!  You can’t just give yourself titles like th-ahahat!  Ah!  Nonono!” Zuko’s small diatribe instantly died on his lips as Sokka’s fingers began to wriggle against his side, a few rather unbecoming giggles already breaking free before he reined himself in again.

“What was that?  Were you backsassing Sokka the mighty dragon slayer?!” Sokka teased, though he couldn’t help smiling as he already heard the familiar rasp of Zuko’s laughter.  This was going to be far too entertaining.  How could he pass up this opportunity?

“Dragon slayer?!  You’re ridiculous!  Let me gohohoahahaha!  Stahp it!  Stahahahap!” Zuko felt the flutter of Sokka’s other hand where it rested against his lower ribs on the opposite side.  Immediately the jolt of ticklish sensations raced through him and he felt his knees already starting to turn to jelly beneath him.  Of all of the things he could be weak against, something as silly as tickling was more than enough to sap his strength. Sokka’s smirk came back as he heard that, his fingers, scribbling lightly over both the Firelord’s sides.  Working in tandem his fingers lightly brushed along the vulnerable area before massaging quickly into his lower ribs.  If memory served, this had been one of the better weak spots of this particular dragon.

“WAHAIT!” Zuko cried out, his laughter finally breaking free from those raspy giggles to something lighter and more carefree.  Honestly, it was something Sokka had been so proud to draw out all those years ago when Zuko was still that broody teenager who had joined their gaang.  He had been so awkward and to be fair, their dear jerkbender still kinda was, but after attempting through sheer bullheadedness to forge a friendship with him, Sokka honestly couldn’t have been prouder to call him his best friend.

And what kind of best friend would he be if he didn’t tease and taunt Zuko into never forgetting his super awesome new title that he just came up with?  A terrible one… and Sokka refused to be a terrible friend.

“Wait?  Wait for what?  Oh!  Were you going to finally call me by my proper title?” Sokka teased as he moved one of his hands down to squeeze along Zuko’s right hip.

Zuko instantly jumped at the sensation, feeling his legs finally starting to cave under him as he attempted to curl up in Sokka’s hold to escape the sensations.  He could feel his cheeks and ears heating up as his laugh bubbled up unbidden, the noise still slightly foreign to him even after all these years.  However, Sokka had never seemed to have a problem drawing it out of him.  He just wished he had remembered that before drawing out the ‘dragon slayer’ once more.

“Nehehehever!” Zuko growled out between his laughter, his hands weakly attempting to push away Sokka’s to no avail.  “Ihihit’s a… a stuhupid naha-EHEHEHE!  STAHAHP IT Y-YOU AHAHAHASS!”  Zuko’s strength finally gave out as his legs buckled beneath him, though with Sokka’s arms around him he was easily lowered to the ground.  Sadly this did nothing for his current situation as Sokka had seemed to remember another one of his worst spots.

His stomach.

“Doth my ears deceive me?  Did you just call my regal and totally awesome title stupid?!  How dare you, good sir!” Sokka teased, his arm braced carefully around Zuko as his other vibrated quickly right against the center of Zuko’s stomach.  He’d learned very early on that the easiest way to break Zuko’s concentration and resolve was a nice little attack on this particular area.  “You know how to get this to stop, Zuko!  Admit that I am the best dragon slayer in the world!”

Zuko snorted as Sokka’s hand began to scribble all around the hyper ticklish spot, trying to shimmy this way and that out of the man's hold to get away from the maddening touch.  However, practically sitting on the ground with a tickle monster clung to your back really didn’t leave much wiggle room and Zuko realized his chances of freedom were slim.  But his pride just wouldn’t allow for him to admit defeat just yet!

“Thahahaha’ts not e-even a thihihing!  I re-refuhuhuse to gihihive in t-to yo-AHAHA!  STAHP IT!  STAHPSTAHPSTAHAHAHAP!” Zuko instantly broke into the most wild and ridiculous laughter as Sokka snuck one of his hands under his arm, his fingers spidering quickly against Zuko’s underarm in a way that drove the firebender crazy with ticklish laughter.  Zuko instantly snapped his arms to his sides, trapping Sokka’s hand against his armpit while the man's other hand continued to scribble and send nibbling pinches all along his stomach.

“Admit it!  Admit that I’m the best!” Sokka called over Zuko’s loud laughter, the sound of it making him smile like an idiot even as a few chuckles escaped him.  Spirits, it really had been far too long since he’d seen Zuko let loose like this even just a bit.  Maybe this was something they needed  in their lives a bit more?  It definitely wouldn’t hurt after all the droll and intense meetings they were forced to go to day in and day out.

Meanwhile, Zuko was dying.  The Kiyoshi warriors were going to show up here to see that their poor Firelord had met his end at the hands of a ridiculous man who had a pension for coming up with truly terrible titles for things!  Sadly he couldn’t dwell on his dramatic end as Sokka’s fingers were still attacking two of his worst spots.  Zuko knew that there really was only one way out of this. “OKAHAHAY!  O-OKAY I AHAHADMIT IHIHIT!” Zuko cried out with unrestrained laughter, feeling the tickling slowing down just a little to keep him giggling ridiculously.

“What was that?  Are you trying to tell me something, buddy?” Sokka teased, his fingers wriggling lightly against Zuko’s armpit as the other hand focused on a particularly sensitive spot on the side of the firebenders stomach.

Zuko snorted and kicked his legs out weakly before nodding.  “Y-yes!  You… you’re the behehehest gah!  Not thehehere!  Not there plehehease!  Agnihihi why-hehehe?!” Zuko giggled hysterically as Sokka found that spot on his stomach.  Taking as deep a breath as possible he tried to once more to make his bid for freedom!  “Y-You’re the behehehest drahagon slahahahayer!  Plehehehase!”

Sokka’s fingers immediately stopped their torment, chuckling a bit to himself.  “See?  That wasn’t so hard was it?” he teased, patting Zuko’s back as he helped the man sit up, watching the firebender wiping away tears of mirth from his eyes as residual giggles still managed to escape.

“Yes.  Y-yes it was,” Zuko shot back, though as he turned to look at his friend, the smile on his face was more relaxed, even after the mini battle he’d just had to endure.  “I can’t believe I… forgot what a… giant pain in the ass you were after you figured that out.”

It was Sokka’s turn to laugh as he heard that and he felt his smile growing all the more fond.  “It was probably one of my greatest discoveries and I will cherish it forever!  Not many people can say they bested the Firelord,” Sokka teased, lightly nudging Zuko with his elbow and getting a chuckle in response.

“That’s fair.  But really?  Dragon slayer?” Zuko asked, trying to earn back a bit of dignity as he attempted to straighten out his traitorous robes.

“What?  It makes me sound so cool!” Sokka cried out dramatically, making it incredibly hard for Zuko not to roll his eyes.

“I’m still not convinced you didn’t try one of uncle’s teas,” Zuko murmured, though he smiled regardless.  “And I hope you know that this is the last time the mighty ‘dragon slayer’ is going to win.  I won’t be caught with my guard down like that again.”

“Oh?  Is that a challenge, Jerkbender?” Sokka teased, leaning closer and wiggling his fingers threateningly.

Zuko couldn’t suppress a snort of laughter as he pushed Sokka’s face away gently with his palm.  “I’m too old for your nonsense,” he joked, making Sokka laugh brightly.

“Nah.  We’re still young at heart.  That’s all that matters,” Sokka said with a fond smile.  “And if you ever forget that as well, I’m more than happy to remind you again about the days of our youth.”

Shaking his head, but with a fond smile on his lips, Zuko couldn’t help feeling that familiar warmth build in his chest.  The world may be changing.  They may still be working to right the wrongs and suffer through countless meetings and council members, but… with friends like Sokka there to remind him it was okay to let loose, laugh and remember that they really were still young at heart, he knew he could face anything.

Even dragon slayers.